The Sky is Not Less Blue
by sazz27
Summary: A disastrous mission tears the team apart, and for John and Rodney, nothing will ever be the same again. Set in late Season 3, so beware of spoilers. Gone AU for John's backstory now that season 4's Outcast has aired.
1. Chapter 1

I keep swearing off writing fanfiction and manage to hold off for about… oh, a month? Two? So here we go! Another story! This is a fic I've been mulling over and pecking at since I created the backstory for Sheppard in my other fic, _Beatae Memoriae,_ and while I am 'borrowing' the backstory from that story, this is in no way a sequel and definitely a stand-alone.

This story is set in late Season 3, after _Sunday_, but before _Vengeance_, so Carson, much as I love him, isn't in this, for reasons that may become evident later on in the story. If you haven't seen Season 3, this has _mega_-spoilers, so please be mindful of that.

This story will also get majorly Jossed by the time _Outcast_ airs (_whywhywhy_ do I read spoilers?), and truth be told, I almost abandoned this story in light of the fact, but I want closure, dammit! So, I guess, please consider this an AU – and I hope my muse wasn't misguided in demanding that this thing be written, jossing be damned. Again, pardon any incomprehensible scientific mumbo-jumboing, and any medical inaccuracies are to be taken with a grain of salt, though I do try to research as much as possible.

A huge, _huge_ thank you to my wonderful friend and brilliant beta, who I blame entirely for keeping me in the full throes of this addiction. I adore you, darling!

While this story is still a work in progress, I can safely say that it is largely written and just needs some serious editing and fine tuning, so I will try to post each new chapter as quickly as the edits go and pesky real life permits.

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_The Sky is Not Less Blue_

* * *

The sound of footsteps approaching in the nearly empty airport gate corridor made Rodney look up from his clasped hands. John raised his head too, panic flickering briefly on his face before he reined it back in, kneading his hands on the fabric of his pant legs as he and Rodney sat side by side on the bench, waiting for something they both dreaded.

They'd taken the red-eye from Colorado Springs to Reno, and the morning sun was still a hazy red ball low in the flat desert horizon. The footsteps came nearer still, and from the corner of his eye, Rodney could see an elongated shadow darkening the gleaming tile floor. He glanced back at John, and there it was again, the barely constrained fear, his entire body tensing, his hands leaving damps streaks on his faded jeans.

"You sure you want to do this?" Rodney asked. He kept his voice low, but John still startled a little at the sound. Rodney then shook his head at the stupidity of his own question. "I mean you... you don't _have_ to do this. We can still figure something else out."

"No, we can't," John answered with a faint, but bleak smile. Rodney opened and closed his mouth silently, struggling to think of something encouraging to say but then the footsteps and the long shadow materialized into a tall figure striding up to them. An older man, in his late sixties, early seventies, maybe, wearing dress slacks, a pressed white shirt and striped tie.

Rodney stood and looked the man up and down, curious, despite himself. "General Sheppard, I presume?"

The man nodded, studying Rodney with the same blatant curiosity. "General William Sheppard," he confirmed. "And you must be Doctor McKay?" Posture rigid, military all the way, he held out his hand for Rodney to shake.

"The one and only," Rodney answered, forcing a grin as he took the man's hand. Of course, the general had one of those sadistic handshakes that come within a hair's breadth of finger crushing. From the little John had told him of his father, Rodney had expected as much. Without thinking, he squeezed back just as hard, and the two men stared into each other's eyes with a sudden hostility for which Rodney couldn't find a reason. He wanted to point out that their plane had arrived nearly forty minutes ago, but for once, he held his tongue, for John's sake.

Before he had even been officially discharged from the military, John had shocked not just Rodney but their entire team when he first contacted his father. To John's own surprise, his old man had not only readily replied to him, but had also offered to take John in, as though the near fifteen-year rift between them had never happened. But Rodney knew that John was only doing this because he had nowhere else to go, because he hadn't wanted to be a burden to his team.

John slowly got to his own feet then relaxed into his deliberate and characteristic slouch. General Sheppard frowned a little at that. Rodney took the opportunity to extricate his hand, resisting the urge to massage his aching fingers.

"Hi, dad," John said with a smirk and a sloppy salute, the display of rebellion marred by the faint but noticeable tremor to his voice. He kept his head slightly down, self-consciously hiding his eyes.

"John," the older man replied with a curt nod, finally looking closely at his son. He blinked, unable to hide his shock at the sight of the fine network of scars on John's cheekbones and the deeper one bisecting his left eyebrow. The old man reached out a hand and hesitated a moment before grasping John's shoulder. Not expecting the contact, John flinched, stumbling into Rodney, who quickly caught and steadied him. Even as John muttered a quick apology, his father jerked his hand away as though scalded. His eyes flicked back down the hallway, as if he were wishing he could turn tail and walk away again.

Rodney wanted to shout at the old man; _He's blind, not fucking contagious, you idiot!_ Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath, to just stay objective about this whole thing and cut the old man some slack. After all, he'd had the decency to show up. Late or not, he was here, accepting responsibility. That was something, wasn't it?

Then in an oddly familiar mannerism, General Sheppard schooled his features into inscrutability as he studied the son he hadn't seen in fifteen years. As Rodney watched the older man take in the full reality of his new, six-foot tall responsibility, he looked for further similarities between John and his father. Though a little stooped by age, William Sheppard had the same lanky build as John, and his hair was nearly as thick, but a luxurious silver-gray in color. The same color Rodney imagined that John's would turn about five years from now, judging by the number of light strands he'd noticed suddenly beginning to streak John's dark hair. Then looking back into the old man's eyes that was where the similarities ended. William Sheppard's eyes were a cool, hard pale gray, whereas John's, even now, were warm and far more expressive than John was probably even aware of, or would have liked.

"We should probably head out now before the rush hour traffic starts," William finally said, clearing his throat. He glanced down at the luggage by John's feet. "That everything?"

John nodded. "Yep. That's it." He'd given away most of his possessions before leaving Atlantis, claiming he no longer had any need for them, and to Rodney, it seemed strange that John's entire life could be so easily packed up in one suitcase and a large duffle bag.

William stooped to retrieve the suitcase, while John reached down for it at the same time. He stumbled into his father then lurched backward, his face coloring with shame and uncertainty. William said nothing, only grasped hold of the suitcase handle with a gnarled, trembling hand. John backed up until his legs hit the bench; his fingers reaching down to touch the seats, grounding himself.

"Hey, I got the other one," Rodney piped up little too brightly, his voice rising an octave along with the tension. He pulled on his own backpack then hefted the duffle bag onto his other shoulder. He bit back the urge to complain when his back twinged in protest. And it was just typical of Sheppard to insist on keeping both his skateboard and boogieboard and taking them with him to freaking Nevada. "I'll walk you to the car."

William Sheppard nodded in thanks while Rodney moved close enough to John to brush up against his shoulder. He waited for John to make the next move. After a moment of hesitation, he did—reaching out and loosely grasping hold of Rodney's forearm. It was an unwritten, hard-earned rule between them—John took Rodney's arm when he was damn well good and ready, not the other way around. John's father, keeping his eyes averted, turned and strode ahead of them as though in a hurry, or embarrassed to be seen with them.

"It's gonna be okay," Rodney reassured John, even though he knew his friend hated platitudes. "It's just temporary and until you learn how to live on your own without burning the place down or seriously maiming yourself every five minutes."

"I _know,"_ John replied too quickly through gritted teeth, his face set in a determined scowl.

"I bet he's a great guy once you get to know him," Rodney said, hopeful, jerking his chin in the direction of William Sheppard's back.

"He's an asshole," John said simply, as though commenting on the weather.

Rodney didn't know what to say to that – what _could_ you say to that? – and so in silence, they followed William outside and into the parking lot. The air was dry and already too warm with the promise of a scorching hot day. The old man stopped at a black Ford Explorer, opened the back hatch and threw John's bag inside. Rodney handed him the duffle, which followed. When the trunk was slammed shut with a solid thump, John flinched again, and misery, fear and indecision passed in rapid succession over his features. Rodney felt like he was handing his best friend over to the enemy.

"Hey, you guys hungry? Because I'm _famished!"_ he blurted, waving in the direction of the freeway. "How about breakfast? I don't know about you, but I'm dying for some pancakes and real bacon." John couldn't hold back a faint smile at that, which was an improvement at any rate, so Rodney found himself babbling on. "I don't have anything better to do until my flight tonight, and what _is_ there to do in Reno this time of day, anyway? Besides throwing away perfectly good money in slot machines, I mean? Maybe there's a—"

John stopped him by squeezing his arm a little tighter. "Thanks, McKay, but I'm pretty tired, and we probably should head out now."

Rodney looked at his friend and didn't know if John's quiet resignation was making this easier or harder. He glanced over to John's father, but the other man was now leaning against the driver's side of the truck, his back to them, curls of smoke drifting over his head as he puffed on a cigarette. He was all but ignoring them, or giving them a moment, it was hard to tell which. At the same time, couldn't the man at least _pretend_ that he gave a good goddamn about his son beyond moral obligation?

Rodney found he wasn't quite ready to give up so soon. In fact, he wasn't ready for this at all. He directed his attention back to John. "You sure? I was gonna spring for it."

John smiled again, that lopsided smirk somehow both grateful and reluctant at the same time. "Ah, you're just saying that now that I turned you down."

Rodney tried to look affronted then remembered with a sharp pang that John couldn't see it. "Are you insinuating that I'm cheap?" he said, forcing his voice to squeak a little with indignation.

"Not insinuating. You _are_ cheap," John told him.

"Hah, so says the man who, even before giving away most of his stuff, owns only three decent shirts, seven CD's and four books. Oh, and a skateboard and surfboard. I don't even _want_ to know what you're planning on doing with those."

"You _counted_ my stuff?" John said, incredulous.

"Hey, who do you think helped pack up your precious stuff?"

"Fine. And that's not cheap, that's practical," John drawled. "Pack up, ready to go anywhere, anytime you w—" He abruptly broke off when both of them realized that John's days of doing just that were over. John rubbed a hand over his forehead, then swallowed hard and shuffled a few steps away, letting go of Rodney's arm. He reached behind him until his fingers found the fender of the truck. "Yeah… well. Take care of yourself, Rodney."

Rodney nodded, finding his throat suddenly too tight to speak and then remembered again that Sheppard couldn't see him. "Yeah," he said in a hoarse voice. "You, too."

"Later, McKay," John said, smiling again, though his sightless eyes were suddenly bright with the threat of tears. "Thanks… for… Thank you." He held up a loosely fisted hand, Ronon-style.

Rodney clasped it tightly, equally manly, then in a spontaneous, decidedly unmanly moment, grasped the back of John's neck with his other hand and pulled him close. John was too surprised to resist then relaxed into the unexpected but comforting embrace a moment.

"You _are_ coming back to visit once in a while, right?" John asked as he pulled back, frowning with suspicion. "You know, Starbucks, old Doctor Who reruns, Big Macs? Bacon from real Earth pigs?" He meant it to be light, to inject a little levity, but Rodney could all too clearly hear the unspoken plea; _don't forget about me._

"Are you kidding me?" Rodney said, playing along and scrunching his face with disgust. "Big Macs? Do you know what they put in those things? Now sushi… _Sushi_ is worth coming back for. And, of course, bacon. I wonder if they even _have_ any decent sushi places in Reno?"

"Right," John said, nodding and reassured. "We'll do sushi and bacon and eggs." He thought a moment, then scowled. "No, on second thought, _you_ can have sushi. I'll stick with the Big Macs." He slid his hand along the truck, and Rodney knew better than to help John find the passenger seat. That, he knew, John would insist on managing on his own.

General Sheppard tossed his cigarette butt to the pavement and watched his son, making no moves to help him either. When after a moment, John found the door handle and pulled it open, William nodded to Rodney. "Thank you for your assistance, Dr. McKay."

With that, he waved Rodney off as though he were nothing more than a valet service. The old man climbed into the driver's seat, slammed the door and started the engine. Standing in front of the open passenger door, John turned in Rodney's general direction, pulled a wry face and shrugged.

Rodney let out a soft laugh at that despite the overwhelming sting of loss. In that moment, he was glad John was unable to see him because the grief and remorse seized full hold and there was no way Rodney could even try to hide it anymore. This was it, this was goodbye.

John reached in the car to feel along the seat before sliding inside. He pulled the door shut with a terrible sense of finality. Rodney almost expected John to look back and wave, or flash Rodney a cocky grin while flipping him off, but then Rodney remembered again. Everything was different now.

John kept his head down as the truck pulled out, turned the corner and was gone.

* * *

_-- tbc --_

* * *

I know it seems like the end, but like the song says, _we've only just beguuunnn…_


	2. Chapter 2

Wow! Thank you all so much for the fantastic reviews! You guys are awesome, and you know that you're only encouraging me, don't you? In case anyone's curious about the title, it comes from an old Danish quote: "The sky is not less blue because the blind man does not see it."

And... onward ho:

* * *

It was strange how quickly life resumed a normal rhythm on Atlantis, or at least what passed for normal in the Pegasus galaxy. One crisis after the other averted, all business as usual. Except for the glaring fact that Sheppard was gone. His absence had become such a painful, lingering shadow hanging over all of them that Rodney and his team had come to stop talking much about him. It was just easier that way.

Despite his best intentions though, it was much more difficult for Rodney to forget. Even now, two months and twenty-seven days after the mission that had changed everything, he seemed to have made no progress whatsoever in putting it past him. Only a few days ago, it had all come crashing back down on Rodney, and he realized that he hadn't moved on at all.

Hunching over his laptop, furiously pounding out the mission report he had procrastinated on for as long as he could get away with, Rodney cursed under his breath after every second word he typed.

_Shortly after gating to the planet, Major Hardy, Ronon, Teyla and I found the cave, which contained remnants of Ancient equipment. We encountered no signs of inhabitants or any other technology._

In truth, the mission had been a complete and utter waste of time, yet he was still expected to submit a full report on _why_ it had been a ridiculous and colossal disaster. He wondered how many paragraphs he could elucidate on, _'Sorry, I fucked up?'_ Because that was all he was really willing to say on the matter. However, that apparently wasn't good enough, and Elizabeth insisted on having the completed, _detailed_ report of his fuck-up on her desk, first thing in the morning.

It had only been four weeks since Sheppard went back to Earth, and Rodney's team had already been assigned a new team leader. Unfortunately, said new team leader, Major Kevin Hardy, in Rodney's opinion, was the worst possible choice Elizabeth could have made. When Rodney very vocally made his displeasure clear to anyone who would listen, Elizabeth had called him into her office, given him a look of wearying patience and told him to give the Major a chance.

But the simple truth was, Rodney had loathed the man on sight. He found it almost impossible to speak to Hardy without sneering, or using the tone of voice he usually reserved for very slow children or aliens who hadn't quite mastered language skills.

Hardy, in turn, treated Rodney with wary, disgruntled caution, as though the scientist were as volatile and unstable as aged nitroglycerin – sometimes useful, but something you didn't particularly want to have to touch. As a result, after only a handful of rather uneventful missions, they'd both reached the point where every moment spent in each other's company resulted in foul tempers on both sides.

Ronon, for his part, seemed to have very little in the way of an opinion towards their new leader, but Rodney had never been able to tell what Ronon was thinking. For all Rodney knew, if Sheppard hadn't insisted that Ronon promise to stay on Atlantis and with his team, the runner might have already taken off and started a new life with some of his surviving Satedan buddies.

Teyla, as usual, didn't say much on how she felt about the whole thing, but there was a deeper sadness filling her already somber eyes, and her protective instincts had swung into full gear. In fact, she was driving Rodney nuts with her sudden urge to help him get in touch with his churning emotions.

She had further pissed off Rodney by suggesting that perhaps his hostility towards Major Hardy stemmed from the simple fact that their new leader wasn't John. Rodney had lost his temper with her at that, not only for mentioning Sheppard in the first place, but also for her pathetically flawed attempt to psychoanalyze him. It simply wasn't possible for a man of Rodney's superior intellect to be that feeble-minded. No, he hated the major from his flat-top blond crewcut, stiffly ironed T-shirts, neatly pressed BDU's, right down to his spit-polished boots because he was a tight-assed dickhead. Sheppard had nothing to do with it, although Rodney was pretty sure that John would have readily shared his opinion of the man.

The recent failed mission that Rodney was struggling to write the ridiculous, pointless report on had been a simple exploration of an uninhabited planet listed in the Ancient database. It hadn't taken long for Rodney to detect energy signals coming from about 100 yards away. Following the signal, they'd come upon a small cave filled with old clothing, decayed, moldering equipment and a control panel, a pale light emanating from it.

The control panel was what undid him. Rodney had stood there at the mouth of the cave, suddenly unable to take another step. He'd broken out in a cold sweat, his breath catching in his lungs, his mouth so dry that he couldn't swallow. He dimly remembered Hardy yelling at him to get a move on, but his irritating voice seemed miles away.

Rodney knew that the cave and that console in no way resembled the facility back on M3R-6P8. But it didn't matter. It didn't make any difference to what his mind was shrieking at him, didn't make the panic any less overwhelming, because he may as well have been back there all over again…

Back there, all it had taken to activate that console was for Sheppard to lay his hands on the familiar looking panel. They'd found the abandoned and all-but destroyed Ancient facility fairly quickly after they'd gated to the planet. The small, metal-lined room had miraculously survived with some of its equipment still intact. At John's touch, buttons and small screens had eagerly lit up, as though the technology had been lying in timeless, patient anticipation of his arrival. A row of blue-tinged lights along the walls flared to life, and a virtual monitor appeared in front of their eyes. Ancient text began scrolling in a steady stream, and Rodney had grinned with excitement and anticipation.

Sheppard had given Ronon and Teyla the all clear and directed them to scout out the surrounding area, leaving him and Rodney alone in the almost clinical austerity of the place. Rodney remembered John complaining that the cold, blue-lit room was 'creepy,' and Rodney, without looking away from the screen, had jeered at him for being a 'little girl.'

And as the console continued to willingly spew out information, and John scowled and paced around him like a bad-tempered cat, Rodney typed out a few more commands, searching through the plethora of databases. He plugged his tablet into one of the ports and began keying in commands. The text immediately started downloading in a dizzying stream of information. He hadn't been able to believe his luck. That was his first mistake, because that was always when things went wrong, wasn't it?

The scrolling text in front of them froze. The monitor flashed a deep, ominous red. The flow of text switched to a flashing warning. A shrieking alarm blatted so suddenly that both Rodney and John jumped and clamped their hands to their ears.

"Rodney?" John shouted over the din, both in warning and in query. "What the _hell?"_

Rodney stared at the console; every single one of the buttons was glowing, lit up like an over-laden Christmas tree. "No no no," he chanted, "No you don't…"

Reaching for his tablet, he frantically tried to sever the connection and save what information he could before the Ancient technology fried the damn thing. He typed out a few more commands, the keypad on the console vibrating under his fingers. The monitor continued to flash repetitive, warning Ancient text so quickly that Rodney was unable to translate what it read.

"Rodney! We are _leaving!"_ John yelled, reaching for his arm.

Rodney nodded, and stumbled back, wide eyes fixated on those lights. The two of them spun in the direction of the open door and that was when Rodney remembered the tablet.

The entire room was vibrating now; the console lit up, bright as Armageddon. Rodney wheeled back and snatched at the tablet, trying to yank it free of the cable tethering it to the panel. That was his second mistake.

"Rodney, let's GO!" John bellowed over the alarm. He grabbed the back of Rodney's vest, yanking him away with such force that Rodney nearly lost his footing. The tablet slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor. John snatched it up and paused to spare a glance at the glowing console. Rodney supposed that had been Sheppard's mistake, too.

Turning his head in the direction of the doorway, Rodney had just enough time to see a thick, metal door gliding shut across the space between the room and freedom. Then, from one breath to the next, the lights suddenly winked out, leaving them in complete darkness. He heard the metallic _thud_ of the door slamming home. The alarm abruptly cut off, and the silence itself seemed deafening. There was a hollow _WHUP,_ a sound like no sound at all. Like the end of the world.

Something shoved at Rodney's chest and he crashed to the floor, instinctively drawing up his arms to protect his face. Sharp pain sliced into his arms and his hands, something pelted him, and then all he could hear was the blood roaring in his ears.

Rodney didn't know how long he lay there, just breathing, afraid to move. His eyes were wide open, but in the utter blackness, he couldn't make out a damned thing. He smelled smoke, fried circuitry and something old and musty. Like the air had suddenly turned as stale and ancient as the equipment surrounding him. A sudden, low electronic whoop startled him. It sounded again after a few seconds. Again and again, with a tempo of every three seconds.

Dazed, and moving with the slow, heavy sensation of being underwater, Rodney shakily pulled himself to a sitting position, hunching over his legs. His hands burned with a fiery sting and his shoulder throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat. He called out for John. The only reply was his own voice echoing around him. The alarm blared and blared, and Rodney thought he'd go mad if he had to listen to the thing for much longer.

He called again, his voice wavering with escalating fear. "Sheppard? Answer me, dammit!" Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to slowly count to five, not allowing himself to think too much just yet. "One thing at a time," he told himself. "First find Sheppard, _then_ freak out."

Ignoring the sharp pain in his hands and shoulders, he forced himself to crawl forward in the complete darkness, one hand held out in front of him. His rapid breaths rasped over the damned alarm, his hand and knees crunched over broken glass and debris.

"Sheppard?" he shouted again. "Where the hell are you?"

He banged the side of his head into something hard, and feeling along the edges, he pulled his hand back when he felt warm metal. He thought he'd reached the control panel, or at least what was left of it. He kept moving forward. Then he felt material and the hard shell of a tac vest.

"Sheppard…" he breathed out, more as a relieved affirmation of his friend's presence than anything else. He carefully slid his hands up until he felt skin. Pressing a wildly shaking hand to John's throat, he tried to find a pulse. John lay motionless under his fingers.

"Don't even think about doing this to me, do you hear me?" Rodney babbled, "please be alive, please don't do this to me."

Pressing his wet, bloody fingers tighter against John's throat, he couldn't feel a damned thing. He closed his eyes, held his breath and tried to calm down, tried to stop shaking. It took a moment, but then, over the roar of his own panicked heartbeat, he felt it – a weak, but steady pulse.

"Oh, thank God," he breathed out and sagged back to sit on the cold ground.

The alarm blared over and over again, setting Rodney's teeth on edge. Then it abruptly stopped. A bright light flared into life directly above him, searing his eyes. He cried out and squeezed his eyes shut. Then a voice spoke up. Rodney nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled to look behind him, but the voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

It took a moment for him to realize that it was speaking in Ancient. The flat, almost feminine mechanical voice spoke a few sentences then fell silent. Rodney repeated the words aloud to himself and roughly translated the meaning to; _you are not authorized to use this facility. This facility will self-destruct in… _some undisclosed time because he had never really bothered to learn Ancient all that well.

Rodney looked back to his friend and had only a brief glimpse of John's still, bloodied form before the light winked out, staining a yellowish aura on Rodney's retinas for a moment. The alarm started again in mid-whoop.

"Oh, come on!" he shouted into the black room, his voice echoing around him. _Onononnn…_ "Do we look like Wraith, you idiotic, sadistic freaks!" He snapped his mouth shut when he realized that he was shouting at technology that had likely been programmed thousands upon thousands of years ago. Panic began to set in and he realized that he had started shaking even harder. They could have all of five minutes left to live and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to calm down and stay cool. "Okay. One thing at a time, remember? Stay focused," he told himself.

Rodney directed his attention back to John. Moving his hand up to John's face, he felt cool skin and warm, wet blood. Even at the gentle touch, John pulled in a sharp breath and let it out with a low moan.

"It's okay," Rodney reassured his friend even though he wasn't certain John was conscious enough to hear him. "Everything's okay. We're going to be okay."

John made a pained, distressed sound, and Rodney felt John's hand bump against his own.

"Rodney…" John gasped, 'wh-what…"

"It's okay," Rodney automatically said and stripped off his jacket, bunching it under John's head before easing him back to the hard ground.

"What h-happened?" John whispered, his voice raw, verging on panic. "C-can't see anything…"

"Neither can I," Rodney reassured him. "The lights have gone out."

"Gone out?" John echoed in confusion.

"Well, there was just a little explosion," Rodney replied, too quickly, "but everything's okay." John's fingers brushed against his again. "How bad are you hurt? And don't play tough guy and tell me it's just a scratch, because I can't see shit."

John didn't answer and Rodney gave his shoulder a quick shake. "Hey! Sheppard! Stay with me here. If we're gonna be stuck in the dark together, the least you could do is stay awake."

John let out a soft moan. "Head hurts," he whispered after a moment, and Rodney gently ran his fingers over John's head for any sign of injury. His fingers caught in something sticky at John's hairline – more blood – and he felt a bump at the back of John's head.

"Ow," John protested, jerking away.

"Sorry," Rodney said, and for the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do. "Just… stay still, okay? I… I'll figure out a way out of here."

"Are you… okay?" John asked after a moment.

"Yeah, sure," Rodney answered, all mock glibness. "I'm fine. It's not like I haven't been blown up before."

John managed a snort of amusement at that then tilted his head slightly. "What's that noise?" he said, and it took Rodney a moment to realize what he meant. The alarm. Rodney had managed to tune the sound out to the point where he didn't even notice it anymore. Now it was back, and more grating than ever.

"Rodney… how s-screwed are we?" John rasped without waiting for a reply to his earlier question.

"Oh, the usual level of screwiness," Rodney admitted.

"That good, huh?"

"Yes, but don't forget – we've been in _far,_ far worse situations than this," Rodney told him, "and we've always found a way out."

"We… we stuck in here?" John asked, speaking slowly and carefully, as though he were fighting to stay conscious.

"Well, I think we're more locked in," Rodney answered "I haven't found the door yet, so I can't be sure. This must be just… some kind of ultra-paranoid Ancient security system. I'm guessing they didn't like my tablet all that much."

"Next time… be more careful where you s-stick your port," John said, his words slurring together, then snickered a little at his own joke.

"Ha-ha," Rodney said. "You're the one who's always sticking his port where it doesn't belong, so don't go talking to me about that."

"Can we get radio contact with Teyla and Ronon?"

Rodney's hand instinctively flew to his ear, but of course, his radio was gone, as was John's. "Well, maybe," he answered, "but we seem to have lost our radios, what with being blown up and all—"

The white light snapped on again without warning. Cursing, Rodney flinched against the near blinding brightness, shielding his eyes. He squinted at John, finally getting a good look at him. Rodney's breath caught in his lungs. John's face was a mess of cuts and burns – it looked as though the damned console had blown up right in his face. Blood from a cut on his brow ran down his cheek and stained his ear. His eyelids were raw and bruised looking, blood seeping from them. His swollen eyes, the whites filled with red, were glazed and open and staring straight up, unflinching, at the blazing light.

"John…" Rodney began, fear for his friend suddenly taking over.

John only flinched when the flat, impassive Ancient voice suddenly spoke up again. This time, Rodney, in his limited Ancientese, easily translated it; _you are not authorized to use this facility. This facility will self-destruct in 49 minutes, and 57 seconds._

"Oh, shut up!" he shouted, frustration overcoming him. Well, at least he now knew how little time they had left in this particular universe. It was better than five minutes, he supposed. Enough time to count your blessings and your regrets, but not nearly enough when it was all you had left.

The light winked out and Rodney yelled again. "At least leave the damn light on, you assholes!"

"W-what light?" John gasped as he struggled to sit up. Without thinking, Rodney none too gently pushed him back down again.

"McKay…" John protested and trying to shove Rodney's hand off his chest. "What… who _was_ that?"

"I told you to stay still, remember? You could have a concussion or a damned skull fracture, so if you want to keep what few brain cells you have left – stop moving around so much," Rodney snapped, fear turning to unwarranted anger as he tightened his grip on his friend. John hadn't been able to see anything and didn't that just make this fucking horrible situation one hell of a lot worse. At the realization, Rodney found himself opting for a condensed version of truth. "There's no one else here. It's just some leftover programming."

Rodney felt a stronger twinge in his hand and realized that John was no longer fighting him; his fingers had closed around Rodney's, holding on tightly.

"Rodney, get yourself out of here. Come back… for me when y-you find… Ronon… Teyla…" John's voice trailed off, but the grip on his fingers told Rodney that John was still conscious.

"I'm not going any farther than the door, wherever the hell it is," Rodney corrected, "and then we're _both_ getting out of here." He gave John's hand a gentle squeeze before pulling his own free. "And don't you even _think _about falling asleep in the meantime."

He pulled himself to his feet and turned in what he estimated to be the opposite direction of John. The console had been facing the doorway and John was lying almost beside it. Rodney shuffled a few feet forward, holding his arms out in front of him. His breathing was raspy, and he felt dizzy, as though he were tottering on the edge of a precipice.

After a few steps, he stumbled and nearly fell over something that tangled in his boot. Cursing, he managed to right himself, only to kick something else. It slid across the floor and then lit up. Rodney stopped and stared at it. He chuffed out a soft laugh and shook his head. Wasn't this just a bitch of irony?

He stooped down and picked it up.

"Hey, guess what?" he called over to John. "My tablet still works. Maybe we can send Atlantis an SOS email. Or, if we get really bored, how about a game of Doom?"

"Doom is what… twenty years old?" John replied after a moment, his voice alarmingly weak. "Don't you have Counterstrike…?"

"Of course I do," Rodney replied. The tablet offered a dim light and he could just make out the doorway about ten feet away. "I just thought Doom was more fitting to our situation…"

"Not funny," John rasped.

Rodney halted in his tracks when the bright light snapped on. Opening his eyes wide to allow them to adjust more quickly, he took the opportunity to bolt for the doorway, its darker metal outlined in stark relief.

_You are not authorized to use this facility. This facility will self-destruct in 39 minutes, and 57 seconds._

"Okay! I think you made your point!" he shouted. The light winked out a few seconds after the echoes from the voice faded. Running his fingers along the door, Rodney found that it was smooth, flat and cool under his fingers. He could find nothing with which to pull it open. Frantically, he slid his hands to the outside edges, looking for any type of control device, something he could jig into opening. He could feel nothing but more of the same smooth, featureless surface.

"Shit!" Rodney aimed the tablet along the surrounding walls, using its dim light to look for anything useful. He found his backpack lying on the ground up against the wall. It had been leaning against the base of the console and the blast must have blown it halfway across the room. He grabbed it and pulled it onto his back.

"McKay?" John called after him.

Rodney waved his hand in John's direction. "Trying to find a way out, remember?" He returned to the door and pressed his ear against it, hoping to hear some signs of life outside, like maybe Major Lorne with a caseload of C-4.

"Teyla! Ronon!" He kicked at the door. "You out there? We need to get out of here _now!"_ He listened again. Nothing. Maybe the door was too thick for them to hear him, or maybe his teammates were too far away; he had no way of knowing. Circling the room, he ran his hands along the other equipment lining the walls, but they were all deactivated, panel lights blackened, dead.

"Rodney!" John called again. "Tell me… what th'hell's goin' on… _please."_

Rodney turned at the note of fearful desperation in John's voice. Tearing a hand through his hair, Rodney paced a few steps back and forth. They still had time to get out of this. Even still, he couldn't help an overwhelming rush of fear, a relentless panic consuming him. That maybe there was a distinct possibility that they wouldn't get out of this one, after all.

Aiming the tablet in John's direction, he was just in time to catch John curling onto his side and dragging himself to a near sitting position. Rushing over to him, and cursing a blue streak, Rodney quickly caught hold of his friend before he toppled over again.

"Do you _ever_ listen?" he cried.

"McKay," John gasped, leaning heavily against him. "I want you to… to tell me ever'thin' that's going on."

Positioning the tablet in front of them on the floor and pulling off his pack, Rodney looked at his friend's damaged face and decided to tell John the full truth. After all, he thought, if a man had less than an hour to live, he had to right to know that, didn't he?

"Okay…" Rodney said, watching John's face closely for reaction. "We're definitely locked in, and… I… uh, I didn't want you to freak out or anything, but since we're both stuck in this together and all…" he paused to take a breath. "That voice you heard… it's a… a countdown."

"Countdown to what?" John asked, his voice clouded with confusion.

"Well, the added bonus is that in about half an hour or so," Rodney continued and couldn't stop a slightly hysterical laugh from escaping, "this place is probably going to blow sky-high with us in it, and I can't seem to find a way out of here."

John carefully pressed a bruised hand to his forehead. "Shit."

"Yeah," Rodney agreed.

John took a few slow, deep breaths before speaking again. "Ah, that's lots of time. Ronon and Teyla have… prob'ly already called in the cavalry."

"It takes almost 15 minutes to get to the gate," Rodney reminded him.

"See? Lots of time."

"And 15 to get back."

"Bet they'll be back… any minute now..."

"Right," Rodney said, wishing he had his friend's eternal optimism.

The alarm cut out. The light snapped on and Rodney yelped in surprise.

_You are not authorized to use this facility. This facility will self-destruct in 29 minutes, and 57 seconds._

John dropped his head to Rodney's shoulder. His breaths were pain-filled rasps in Rodney's ear and warm blood seeped into his shirt. The light snapped out and the alarm resumed its maddening tempo.

It took a moment until Rodney's eyes adjusted to the dim glow from the tablet. Rooting in his pack, he pulled out the medkit. Fumbling for gauze pads and bandages, he tried to clean up John's face as much as he could. He tore open some gauze pads and pressed them to John's burned and cut eyelids. John flinched and muttered in protest.

"Hold still," Rodney ordered, holding the pads in place while reaching for a roll of bandage. To his surprise, John obeyed him, and Rodney quickly wound the bandage over John's eyes and around his head. He taped another gauze pad to the deep, still bleeding gash along John's hairline.

"Thought you said… was dark in here," John muttered with an unmistakable note of sarcasm.

Rodney didn't know what to say to that, and so he didn't say anything at all. He suspected that John knew how bad off he was. John shivered and huddled against him, his body becoming heavy and pliant with the onset of unconsciousness. Rodney gently lowered him to the floor, then shook out the metallic emergency blanket and draped it over his friend, letting him rest for the moment. He sat still for the briefest moment, staring into the darkness, then he wound bandages around his torn, seeping hands, picked up the tablet and headed back to the door.

The snap and flare of the warning light startled him so badly he tripped over his own feet and crashed hard to the floor, his knees screaming in protest.

_You are not authorized to use this facility. This facility will self-destruct in 19 minutes, and 57 seconds._

Staggering back to his feet, Rodney cursed under his breath. He was trembling with pain and the encompassing fear. The light cut out, the alarm blared back into life, and Rodney was certain that if they got out of this, and if he lived to be ninety, he would hear that voice and that noise in his nightmares for the rest of his days.

Dropping painfully to his knees, he felt along the bottom of the door, hoping for a small crack. Nothing. It was flush against the floor. Pressing his hands against the hard metal of the door, he again shouted for Teyla and Ronon so loud that his throat hurt and his voice cracked. He punched at the door in frustration and cried out at the sharp flare of pain in his hand.

In desperation, he tried reading the data downloaded onto the tablet. Of course it was entirely in Ancient, and all that he could make out were what seemed to be random streams of databases, renderings, scientific theories, experiments and prototypes of ship designs that normally would have him in paroxysms of excitement. Now, he'd trade every bit of it for one little key, or a simple combination to this damned, immutable door.

He ducked his head when the light snapped on, ignoring it, squinting at the tablet. There had to be something here…

_You are not authorized to use this facility. This facility will self-destruct in 9 minutes, and 57 seconds._

"No!" he shouted helplessly. He furiously scrolled through a few more pages of text then gave up. He looked around the blackened room and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop this. There was nothing to do but make his way back to John. He crouched down beside his friend and in the dim light of the tablet, Rodney saw that John was out cold. He supposed the one consolation was that John wouldn't feel a thing when the place went up.

Sitting down on the floor, Rodney carefully lifted his friend in his arms and slid back against the far wall. Wearily, he supported John against his chest. Closing his burning eyes for a moment, he rested his cheek on the top of John's head. He thought of all the things he'd never get to do, all the discoveries he'd never make. That was a shame, because there were so many ways in which he could have made a lasting contribution. He could have won that Nobel prize.

He thought of Jeannie and how he'd never gotten around to replying to her long email a few months ago, or thanking Madison for the drawing she'd made for his birthday. How he hadn't had a chance to say goodbye. He found that he didn't have too many regrets for the rest of the people he cared about – he'd squared all that away when he'd prepared to die after the Ascension machine fiasco. Still, he was pretty certain that he wasn't any more ready to die now than he had been back then.

"This is a pretty stupid way to go, isn't it?" he said to John, though he didn't think his friend could even hear him. "No blaze of glory, or even going down fighting, or any of that sort of thing you'd come to expect from us, huh? Although… I wouldn't have traded this… _this,_" he waved a hand to signify the entire Pegasus galaxy, "for anything, would you? All the things we've seen and done…" He shifted John a little in his aching, trembling arms. He was getting heavy, but Rodney wouldn't let him go. It was almost over. "For what it's worth… I… I'm sorry. I just wish that—"

A loud _BOOM_ shook the floor beneath him, and Rodney cried out and curled protectively around his unconscious friend. This was it. He pulled John in tightly, filled with the absolute certainty that he most definitely wasn't ready. He didn't want to die. He squeezed his eyes shut. He sucked in a deep breath.

Then, through the ringing in his ears, he heard someone call his name.

Lifting his head, Rodney blinked in disbelief. An incredible, amazing, ragged beam of light spilled into the room, and for a stupid moment, he thought it was a beacon to the afterworld. He heard his name again. A smaller beam of light seared his eyes. A flashlight.

"Rodney! John!" the voice called again.

It was Teyla. _Thank God,_ Rodney thought frantically. It was Teyla, followed by Ronon and a team of marines. Then panic immediately seized hold of him. Rodney babbled something that probably made no sense whatsoever about the self-destruct and the _very_ urgent need for all of them to get out _now. _

Thankfully, Ronon, never one to ask needless questions, immediately strode over to them. He stooped, lifted John in his strong arms and spun in the direction of the blasted door. Teyla and some nameless marine hauled Rodney to his feet and they sprinted for the door.

_Self destruct in ten… nine… eight… seven… six…_

The entire room vibrated, the old equipment rattling like castanets. Dust and chunks of the ceiling pelted down on them.

_Five… four… three…_

And that was the last Rodney heard of that damned patient voice as the marine shoved him hard, and then they were outside. The soldier tackled him to the ground and the breath whooshed from Rodney's lungs. There was a noise that sounded like oddly like fireworks, _pop pop pop,_ and then an ear-splitting _WHAM! _The ground trembled beneath him.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Rodney threw his arms over his head and held still until everything stopped shaking and he could breathe again. He turned his head to see flames and black smoke billowing from a huge pile of rubble. Only half a wall of the facility was left standing.

"Jesus," he gasped and rolled onto his back. He stared up at the canopy of trees surrounding him, and the clear blue alien sky above him was the most beautiful thing in any world.

Then Teyla started fussing over him, and Rodney was too wrung out to protest, to move, to do anything. He watched as John's limp form was carefully placed onto a stretcher and a blanket tucked over him. His head lolled, and Rodney's stomach churned at the sight of the bloodstained bandages covering his eyes.

When Ronon and another marine tried to lift Rodney onto another waiting stretcher, Rodney found that he wasn't too tired to protest that particular indignity. Not after what he'd just been through.

"I'm fine!" he snapped, managing to sit up, shoving off the hands trying to take hold of him. "Just… just give a guy a minute, for Christ's sakes. And go take care of Sheppard, dammit – get him to the gate. He's the one who's injured, not me."

Unfortunately, his bravado was marred by the wavering high-pitched tone to his voice. And despite his protests, every muscle ached and his hands stung like a son of a bitch. He looked at them and saw that the bandages were dirty and dripping with fresh blood. He found that he was too dazed to care.

Staring at him a moment, Ronon seemed to come to a decision, then waved at the marines to go ahead and get John back to the gate. They nodded and moved swiftly away, carefully navigating the thick underbrush and heavy forest, leaving Rodney alone with Ronon, Teyla, and Major Lorne.

Teyla knelt down beside him. "Are you all right, Rodney?" she asked, laying a hand on his shoulder and peering worriedly into his eyes.

Rodney met her gaze, opened his mouth and tried to answer her, tried to come up with some tough guy crack like, 'sure, piece of cake, we do this every day, right?' Instead, and to his horror, what came out was a harsh, rasping sob as he burst into tears. Tears of relief, gratitude, fear and something he couldn't even begin to define.

Teyla didn't bat an eye and simply pulled him into her arms. Ronon crouched down beside them, and laid his big hand on Rodney's shuddering back, both protective and comforting at the same time.

Somehow, Rodney managed to pull himself together fairly quickly, without any further mortifying blubbering. He didn't remember much of the walk back to the gate with Teyla and Ronon supporting him on either side. Major Lorne strode a few paces ahead, clearing a path for them.

Even through his shock and exhaustion, Rodney had a brief, traitorous moment where he hadn't wanted to get back to Atlantis, where he wanted the walk to last forever. He remembered wanting to stay in this dazed state of ignorance, of not knowing, of simply being grateful to be alive. He remembered fearing that once he got back home, everything would have changed. And it had.

With a frustrated sigh, Rodney tore a hand through his hair and forced his attention back to his report. He reluctantly began typing again. His scarred hands still looked odd to him as he typed out the elusive, reluctant words.

Pausing to reread his last sentence, he snorted at its calm understatement; _Major Hardy was persuaded to forgo an exploration of the contents of the cave, of which, in my opinion, did not include anything that we have not already encountered before. _

What had really happened was that Rodney had flat-out refused to enter that cave. Hardy, in his jarhead way of thinking, had continued to scream at him, probably figuring that Rodney was just being belligerent. In the end, Hardy had even grabbed the collar of Rodney's jacket and tried to forcibly haul him inside, and that was when Ronon stepped in.

Grabbing fistfuls of the Major's jacket, Ronon had hauled the shorter man up until Hardy was standing on tiptoe, eye to eye with the big Satedan. Teyla had rushed over to them and tugged on Ronon's arm.

"Ronon!" she shouted, and all Rodney could do was watch in amazement, panic attack all but forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Ignoring her, Ronon pulled the Major in until they were almost nose to nose. "You touch him again," Ronon snarled, "I'll rip your lungs out."

Hardy was too stunned to do anything but stare back in wide-eyed fear.

"Ronon, let him go!" Teyla ordered, slapping at her teammate's bare arm.

Hardy shoved ineffectually at Ronon's chest, cursing, and Rodney couldn't help but marvel at how badly things had gone in such a short amount of time. Ronon stared into Hardy's pale eyes a moment longer, bared his teeth in a terrifying grin then set him down and shoved him away. Hardy stumbled and barely managed to catch his footing. He gaped at each of them in astonishment.

Ronon turned in Rodney's direction. "I'd say we were about done here, don't you, McKay?"

Rodney could only nod. Hardy dropped his head and adjusted his jacket. Without looking to see if any of them were following, and without a word, he'd strode away from them and headed back in the direction of the gate.

After the post-mission checkup and briefing, Elizabeth informed Rodney, Teyla and Ronon that she had granted Hardy's request to be transferred to another team, even though he had given her no explanation as to why. They were grounded from any off-world missions until Elizabeth could figure out what to do with them.

Rodney's own particular punishment had been this damned report, which was near impossible to write without admitting what had really happened. Rodney didn't believe in PTSD or flashbacks, or any of that psychological mumbo-jumbo. At least not when applied to him. He was above such simple-minded failings. He had always been able to work around his fears, compartmentalize them into logical thought processes until they could largely be ignored.

He suspected that the real truth of the matter was that he had lost his nerve, or what little he had managed to attain since setting foot in this galaxy. Or more likely, as he'd known for a while now, he just didn't have the heart for this anymore. What had happened to him and John back in that locked room had messed him up in more ways than one, and short of discovering a way to go back in time, he had no idea how to fix this.

_It was decided that we return to the gate, as there was nothing on the planet that warranted further exploration. To my recollection, nothing further of note occurred. _

Rodney skimmed the drivel he'd written and cursed under his breath. Even still, he printed it, signed it and tucked it in a folder. Shoving back from his desk, he stood and went to place the report on Elizabeth's desk where she'd find it first thing in the morning. From the first paragraph on, she'd realize that it was a load of bullshit, but Rodney was past caring.

* * *

_--- tbc ---_

* * *

_I probably won't be able to post anything for a few days, what with pesky work and all, so please bear with me, and I will try to get Chapter 3 up before the next weekend._


	3. Chapter 3

So terribly sorry for the long delay for this chapter. Real life, you know how it is... However, this _is_ kinda two chapters in one, being rather long and all, so I hope that makes up for my tardiness a little. And thanks so very much to all of you for the fantastic reviews of the last chapter. I _will _try to thank each of you individually, but until then, please know how much I appreciate and treasure every single one of them.

Some fairly intense scenes coming up and there is a language warning for this chapter – the boys do tend to cuss a lot. They must be watching too much Deadwood or something… And here we go:

* * *

John sat up in the darkness. Without fully waking, he pulled himself from the too warm bed and shuffled across the room, sliding his hand along the wall until he found the door. Still half asleep, he bumped his shoulder against the doorway as he stepped through it, his semi-conscious mind already preparing for the day – his morning run, mission reports, meetings with Elizabeth and his team.

Turning the corner, John slammed his bare foot into something hard and unyielding, and he stumbled backwards, choking back a yelp. He reached for the wall, trying to catch his balance, but he missed it completely. His feet tangled underneath him, and he threw his hands out to break his fall. Desperately, he grabbed onto something that only toppled over, accompanying him to the floor with a spectacular crash. Something crunched and snapped under his weight, and he banged his chin on the floor, his teeth clamping down on the soft flesh of the inside of his mouth. He cried out in both pain and surprise.

He scrambled to find his footing, and couldn't help a rush of fear when his hands and bare feet kept skidding and slipping on the floor. He couldn't figure out where he was, and he couldn't find anything to grab onto, just splintered, broken pieces of something. Flailing helplessly in the inexplicable darkness, John started to panic.

"John!"

He startled and froze at the sound of the voice. Someone gripped his upper arm, and he jumped at the touch.

"You all right, Johnny?"

He pulled in a sharp breath and tried to orient himself. He hadn't been called Johnny since he was a kid. The grip on his arm tightened, and John shoved it off, managing to pull himself to a near-crouched position, his hands held defensively in front of him.

"Jesus… how did you manage this?" the gruff voice said, almost in stunned disbelief.

John sucked in a sharp breath and finally recognized the voice, finally remembered where he was. "Dad…?"

"Yeah," William answered, moving things around him. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"

"I… I thought I was back home," John said as the realization struck him. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. His chin hurt and his foot, which he'd bashed about 50 times already that week, throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat. He raised a tentative hand to his mouth and felt his lip swelling a little. "I'm fine. I'm okay," he added too quickly to sound anywhere near believable. "Must have been dreaming."

"You sure you're all right?" William asked, and John could only nod and try to calm down, try to stop shaking. "Christ, Johnny," William breathed out. "You scared the crap out of me. What are you doing up, anyway?"

John frowned at the question and pulled a hand over his watering eyes. "Why? What time's it?"

"3:30 in the damn morning," William grumbled.

"Sorry…" John said. "I didn't mean to wake you." Then the urgent pressure on his bladder told him why he'd staggered from bed half-asleep in the first place. "I… um… I have to pee," he blurted without thinking. _Jesus, John. Get it to together,_ he chastised himself a moment later. He was behaving like he was about ten years old again – like some stupid little kid who'd had a nightmare.

"All right, then," William said, "let's get you up." He took hold of John's arm again, the other hand on his back.

John flinched, biting back the urge to protest. He hated it when people just grabbed onto him like that, taking over. Taking control. He hated being so damn helpless, but he was too out of sorts to vocalize his frustration. He missed McKay with a sudden sharp pang. Rodney knew how this worked. Rodney knew just how to handle things when John got lost in the darkness like this.

Pulling away a little, John staggered to his feet on his own, wincing at the deep ache in his bashed toes.

"Take a big step to your left, there may be some splinters," William cautioned, keeping a firm grip on him.

John froze, then did as he was told, The last thing he needed was to cut up his feet on top of it. "What did I break?"

"Your mother's antique end table."

"Oh, shit," John said, instantly remembering the tall, narrow, ornately carved table his mother had found at a flea market. She'd refinished it herself and religiously polished it once a week. "She loved that thing."

"Yeah, well," William breathed out. "Not gonna make much difference to her now. I should have moved it out of the hallway."

John dropped his head and wondered what his mom would think of what had become of him. Maybe it was a good thing she wasn't around anymore. He didn't want her to see him like this.

William carefully led him into the bathroom then left him alone. It took a few minutes to get business taken care of – adrenaline was still coursing through John's veins and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. He heard clattering sounds outside the door, his dad moving around, probably cleaning up the mess John had made.

When John finished and pulled open the bathroom door, he nearly ran into his father standing outside waiting for him.

"Go back to bed, dad. I'm okay now," John told him, myriad emotions filling him – weariness, shame and a strange sense of disassociation from this so-called life. Even though he'd been here for almost a week now, he and his father had barely exchanged more than a few polite pleasantries – each of them awkward and uncertain in each other's company.

What was worse, since John had lost his sight, he found it hard to differentiate time. The days seemed endless. He'd nod off in the middle of the afternoon, or find himself wide awake in the dead silence of night, and what difference did it make when it was always dark, anyway?

Even though he knew he'd never set foot in the Pegasus galaxy again, Atlantis still felt like home. It certainly felt more real than this place. Here, he was lost, drifting in some uncharted labyrinth of hidden obstacles with a father who had become a virtual stranger.

William stayed silent for a long moment, then cleared his throat. "Well, I don't know about you," he finally said, "but _I'm_ wide awake now. You want some… hot chocolate, or something?"

John couldn't help a faint smile at that, and the tentative, almost hopeful note to his father's voice was something that John never thought he'd hear in this lifetime.

"If I was _five,_ maybe," he replied, strangely grateful for the offer. The thought of going back to his room and lying awake for the remainder of the night with only his thoughts for company was too much. "You got anything stronger than that?"

"Right," William said, blowing out a puff of air. "Yeah, I, uh, probably still have some Jack Daniels left over from Christmas."

"That sounds good," John said as casually as he could.

William led him to the kitchen and John traced the way by running his hand along the walls and counting his steps. They wound up sitting at the kitchen table. His father pressed a tumbler in John's hand and sat down, the chair thumping, then scraping against the hardwood.

John took a long sip then winced at the sting in his mouth.

"Cracked yourself pretty good there," William commented. "You want some ice?"

John shook his head and raised his drink. "Nah, this'll do the trick." He took another careful sip and lowered the glass, turning it around and around on the table. It was square-cut and heavy crystal. He remembered these glasses from when he was a kid. He remembered helping his mom pack them for yet another move and how she'd cried silently as they'd worked, her tears dripping onto the newspaper they'd spread out over the dining room table. John had pretended not to notice, and she'd pretended that everything was okay, but of course, it hadn't been.

"You remember when you fell from the big oak in the backyard in Portland?" William asked, and John shook his head, surprised that his father had been lost in reminiscences of his own. "Couldn't have been more than six or seven years old. I'd told you countless times to stay out of that thing, but did you listen? You were about ten feet up when the branch broke under you. I saw you fall, and I ran over, but got there too late to catch you. You practically landed at my feet, dropped like a stone and just lay there. You scared the crap out of me then, too. For a minute, I'd thought you'd broken your damn neck."

"I don't remember that," John said, smiling faintly. It sounded like something he would have done, all right.

"Yeah, well," William continued. "Took a minute – you must have knocked the wind out of yourself – but then you just sat up and started screaming bloody murder. There wasn't a scratch on you, either. I didn't know if I wanted to hug you or wallop you."

John took another sip from his drink. "You probably did both," he said, though he remembered far more of the latter from his father. Hit first, ask questions later.

"Yeah, well," William said. "You never listened. I'd tell you not to do something and you'd go right ahead and do it anyway."

There never were any correct answers to statements like that from his father, so John didn't even try. "So why'd you choose to retire in Reno, anyway?" he said instead – a deliberate attempt to steer the conversation to safer ground.

There was a long pause. "Dry climate's good for arthritis."

"Oh," John said. He didn't expect that an old man's affliction could strike someone as ornery as his father. "Does it… bother you much?"

"Ah, it's there," William said, shrugging it off.

John took another sip from his drink only to find a few drops left and set the glass back down. He heard the clink of the bottle against his glass and the glug of liquid pouring—William topping off his drink without asking.

"Thanks." John took another sip, already getting mildly buzzed. Maybe he'd even be able to sleep through the rest of the night after this.

"That ex of yours ever get hold of you? What's her name?"

John frowned, surprised. "Nancy, you mean?"

"Yeah, that's her," William said. "She called here a few years ago, trying to look you up. 'Course I had no idea where you were. I didn't even know you'd gotten married."

"Yeah… well," John said with a shrug and shifted in his chair. He had no intention of talking about his failed marriage with his father. Not now. Probably not ever. "It didn't last long."

"She sounded decent enough," William said in a slightly accusatory tone, and John could all but hear the unspoken words; _you screwed that one up, too, didn't you?_

"Yeah… she was nice," John said, offering no further information. Anything more than that would seem like he was defending himself. Although, he _had_ single-handedly ruined that relationship, hadn't he? His father knowing him far too well, even after all these years, was like a punch in the gut.

"This happen before you got shipped off to the Antarctica?"

"You heard about that, too, huh?" John took a gulp from his drink and damn if his hands weren't shaking again.

"Word gets around the military," William said. "Can't say as I was surprised. You always were a stubborn bastard – did whatever the hell you wanted to, right from the get-go. I _am _surprised that you got off as easy as you did, though. If you'd been under _my_ command—"

"Guess I'm just lucky, huh?" John interrupted, deliberately slouching in his chair and pretending that his father wasn't getting to him, just like he always did. And here he was, forty damn years old and living with his father again. If anyone had told him that this was how his life would turn out, John would have laughed his ass off. Or put a fucking bullet in his head.

At the same time, bad as his father was, at least William mostly left John alone, not bothering with any superficial niceties. They both knew that this situation sucked, and wasn't likely to get much better. Even still, living here was a better alternative to the counseling and therapy that the SGC had tried to shove down his throat, and which he'd flat-out refused. Better than spending even one more day with people fussing over him and treating him like some damn invalid. Better than Rodney and his misplaced guilt, and maybe with John no longer there, as a constant reminder, Rodney could put all this behind him and maybe, in time, he could even forget a little.

"Don't know if I'd call that lucky," William said, startling John from his thoughts. "May as well have sent you to damn Siberia, putting you out to pasture like some—"

"Actually, they did me a _favor_ sending me there," John corrected, all feigned casualness. In truth, his heart was pounding with growing anger and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. "It was kind of… _nice._ Great skiing. No uptight, by the book generals who wouldn't see a gray area if it bit them in the ass. I could fly as much as I wanted to, and it led to my last assignment, _and_ my promotion to Lt. Colonel." John couldn't help throwing that last bit in his father's face. Hell, at the time, he'd gloated about his promotion to anyone who'd listen, but hadn't it always been his father to whom he'd wanted to prove that he was worth a damn?

"Yeah, I heard. Also heard that someone pulled a few strings on your behalf, playing favorites," William said, equally casual, though it did nothing to soften the cruel sting of his words. His chair scraped against the floor with a loud squeal, making John jump a little. "Think I'm more tired than I thought. I'll give you a hand back to bed."

John was both relieved that the conversation was over and frustrated at being dismissed like some wet behind the ears rookie subordinate. He finished his drink in one gulp and insisted on finding his room on his own. He was too pissed off at William to let him touch him again. It took a few minutes, but he found the small bedroom by recounting each of his steps.

Instead of getting back into bed, he sat in the overstuffed chair by the window. He fumbled for the remote he'd left on the armrest and turned the TV on, keeping the volume low. Of course he couldn't watch anything, but the sound would at least offer a distraction. He kept flipping channels and stopped at some educational channel or other. It was the sound of waves that caught his attention. The sound filled him with him such futile longing for another sea that he almost turned it off. Instead, he sat back and listened to the seagulls crying in the background, the splash of waves slapping against a boat.

The last time that John saw Atlantis, the day he'd lost his sight, the sun was just rising in the horizon. The Lantean sea had been sparkling, and the waves were splashing against the walls of the city as he stood on the balcony near his quarters, watching the last of the sunrise. Atlantis herself had been gleaming like newly polished silver in the golden light, almost as though she knew it would be the last time he'd ever see her. And staring sightlessly into the ever-present darkness and listening to the waves in the documentary, John realized that he _could_ still see Atlantis. All he had to do was clear his thoughts and there she was, shining in the sunrise, the image of her forever burned into his memory.

Though John tried hard not to think too much about his old life, he still missed Atlantis and her familiar thrum through his veins so badly that he wasn't sure how he'd make it from one day to the next. His team and Elizabeth – well, he tried not to think too much of them at all. It didn't hurt so badly that way. Even still, he couldn't help worrying about them – wondering if they were okay, if they were safe.

That day back on M3R-6P8 though, John had always thought he'd experience a sixth sense about when it would all come to an end, some impending premonition of when his number was up, so to speak. And losing his sight _had_ been a sort of death – the death of the man he used to be. But on that day, he'd felt nothing other than irritation with McKay's gleeful over-exuberance at finding some new Ancient toys to play with. He remembered thinking that he'd probably have to forcibly pry Rodney from the place if they ever wanted to see home again.

The truth was, John had let his guard down and become too comfortable with Ancient technology. He had forgotten how it could so easily turn on you and bite you in the ass. Any half-decent soldier would tell you that complacency would always be your first and fatal mistake.

He didn't remember much about being stuck in that room with McKay. He remembered the terrible pain and terrifying, relentless burning in his eyes. He remembered that droning alarm; he could still hear it sometimes in his dreams. He hazily recalled Rodney stumbling around in the dark, and the frustrated helplessness he had felt lying there, not being able to do a damn thing to help his friend as he desperately tried to find a way out.

He did clearly remember waking up in the infirmary, scared, disoriented and with his eyes heavily bandaged. For a moment, he'd thought he was still in that dark locked room with Rodney, that they were minutes away from death. He'd frantically called out for McKay and then a nurse had taken hold of his hand, gently urging him to calm down. She'd assured him that Rodney was fine and sleeping a few beds away from him.

Dr. Keller had spoken then; John recognized her voice right away. She'd tried to coax him into going back to sleep – it was late, 03:00, she'd said – but John had insisted that she tell him what was wrong with him, how bad off he was. He remembered her laying a hand on his shoulder and telling him that he'd suffered a serious concussion. She took a deep breath and then told him something to the effect that although she and Dr. Ito, a renowned eye specialist, had done everything they could, it was highly unlikely that John would ever regain much of his vision.

That was where things got a little harder to recall. He'd heard a heart monitor beeping like crazy, but he hadn't paid attention because everything had started swimming. Nausea roiled in his stomach and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. Bile rose up in his throat and he'd gagged on it. The bed had been pushed down flat and a firm hand pressed on his chest. Keller said something urgent to the nurse about not allowing him to vomit because it would exert too much pressure on his eye sockets.

"John," Dr. Keller called to him, "it's okay. Take a deep breath, it's okay. Just take slow, deep breaths." A needle pricked his arm, and all at once, his limbs became heavy and a strong, medicinal taste filled his mouth.

"It's okay," she repeated, gently rubbing his arm. "Don't think about it now. Just relax, let the medication do its work and go back to sleep. We'll talk some more in the morning. Just sleep now."

A ragged, helpless sob tore from John's lungs, but he tried to listen to her. His breaths slowed along with his sluggish thoughts. Everything became muted and far away.

"That's it," Dr. Keller reassured him, "it's okay, just go to sleep."

Even though he knew that nothing would ever be okay again, he did as he was told and allowed the drugs to pull him under.

He'd woken a few times throughout the next day to the sounds of his team moving around him, talking quietly amongst themselves, but he'd pretended to still be asleep. He didn't want to talk; he just wanted to listen to the sounds of their voices, allowing their presence to lull him until he fell back into a welcome oblivion.

The next time he woke, it was to an odd pecking noise, then the unmistakable sound of Rodney cursing under his breath.

"McKay?"

The pecking sound abruptly stopped. "Hey, you're awake." There was a pause. "Oh, god, you're awake."

"What… you doing?" John asked, confused. His head felt too heavy and muted pain pulsed behind his eyes. It was hard to focus through the heavy medication; everything was kind of floaty and distant, but he found that he wanted to talk to McKay now. He needed to make sure that his friend was all right.

"What am I doing?" Rodney echoed, sounding equally confused. "Oh. Typing," he added after a moment.

"Sounded… strange."

"Ahh," Rodney said, understanding. "Well, I've been maimed, so I'm typing with one finger."

"Maimed?"

"Seven stitches in my left hand and six in my right." Rodney sounded almost proud of the fact.

"Oh…" John breathed out. "You okay?"

"Besides nearly losing two fingers?" Rodney said, "sure, I'm fine. How are you… holding out?"

"Been better," John nearly whispered. His hands strayed to the thick gauze pads and bandages on his face. "I… I don't—"

"Hey, don't listen to the doctors just yet. They never know what the hell they're talking about half the time, anyway," Rodney interrupted, sounding nervous. John felt Rodney tug on his wrists, urging him to leave the bandages alone. "Just… give it time. Once you've healed up a little, I'm sure you'll be as good as new in no time. Everything will be fine."

John took a deep breath and allowed himself a glimmer of cautious hope. "Maybe," he said after a long moment. "Hope you're right."

"I'm always right," Rodney said automatically and John smiled a little at that.

"Guess you found a way out for us, after all?" John said.

"Um, no…" Rodney said, then fell silent.

"McKay?"

"If it wasn't for Ronon and Teyla, we'd be dead right now," Rodney finally said in a rush of jumbled words.

"Well, that was lucky, I guess," John said, at the same time, wondering where the rest of his team had gone.

"Yeah. _Real_ lucky," Rodney said, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

John wished that he could see the look on Rodney's all too expressive face so that he could better understand his friend's uncharacteristic reticence. It was too hard to think though, too hard to make much sense of anything, and he almost drifted off again.

"Listen… John…" Rodney suddenly spoke up, startling him awake. "I… I'm sorry."

John almost frowned, then winced at the pull at his brow. He sucked in a breath and shifted his head on the pillow. "For what?"

"I… I couldn't find a way out. I screwed up. I panicked and was absolutely _useless _and—"

"It wasn't your fault, Rodney," John broke in, realization dawning on him, even through the drug-filled, sleepy haze.

"I shouldn't have gone back for that tablet."

"No you shouldn't have," John agreed. "And I shouldn't have picked it up when you dropped it. So we both screwed up."

"But if I hadn't—"

"McKay – none of it makes any difference," John said, his voice sounding tired and slurred to his own ears. "We never would have made it to the door in time, anyway."

"You don't know that."

"Yes… I do," John told him, his voice firm this time.

"You're not _getting_ it, Sheppard," Rodney protested, unwilling to let it go. "We had almost a fucking _hour,_ and I _still_ couldn't find a way out of there. Every time we've been in a bad situation, I've _always_ come up with a way out – in less than half that time in many cases. But _this_ time..."

Rodney trailed off and John couldn't think of anything to counter his statement. And it was true, wasn't it? Right from day one, Rodney was the answer man, the guy everyone turned to when things went bad because he always figured out a solution to even the direst situation, in record time to boot.

"Well, it was bound to happen one day, I guess," John finally said, trying for a little levity instead. "The great Meredith Rodney McKay can't think his way out of a bind."

"That's not funny," Rodney said in a tight, almost angry voice, and John immediately regretted his words.

"No, it isn't," he agreed. "You can't fix everything, Rodney. Some things just… _can't_ be fixed." Rodney was silent for so long that John thought maybe he'd slipped away unnoticed. "McKay?" he called, moving to sit up a little, then bit back a curse at the instant wave of dizziness.

"What?" Rodney finally answered, all sulky petulance.

"You gonna talk or just sit there breathing on me?"

"I am _not_ breathing on you," Rodney huffed.

"Yes, you _are,"_ John retorted, "I can smell what you had for lunch."

Doctor Keller and a nurse came in then and shooed Rodney out so that they could change the bandages covering John's eyes. Keller cautioned him not to open his eyes, but they felt so gummed up that he probably wouldn't have even been able to. Something cool and soothing was gently wiped over his eyelids and some kind of gel was smeared over his cheekbones. And as they worked, Keller and the nurse chatted to one another about trivial things, and John was grateful for the distraction. He almost wanted to ask how bad he looked – if he'd spend the rest of his life frightening old ladies and small children – but he was probably better off not knowing just yet.

Keller must have sensed what he was thinking because she gently patted his shoulder. "You suffered some minor cuts and burns to your face, but they'll heal nicely in time, and you should have only minimal scarring."

"That's good," John said, relieved. "Although," he couldn't help adding, "it's not like I'll be gazing at any mirrors anytime soon." He'd meant to say it jokingly, but somehow, it came out angry and bitter instead.

There was a brief pause and then Keller, in a soft, regretful voice, said, "I am so sorry about this, Colonel. I only wish that there was more we could do to help you. There is a possibility that in time, more surgery can help you regain some degree of vision. Let's just take things one step at a time, all right?"

John nodded, pressing his lips tight together. He swallowed hard, trying to push back the growing fear that maybe McKay wasn't right about this one, at all.

The bandages were efficiently and gently replaced. Keller gave him a pill to swallow, and in time, the steady pulsing in John's head eased, and a drowsy lethargy swept over him.

The next few days passed in a haze of painkillers, more bandage changes, his team sitting with him, and John pretending that he wasn't scared half out of his mind of what would happen when the bandages finally came off for good.

And they did – three days later. Elizabeth and his team insisted on being there for the big event, and John was simultaneously grateful for their presence and reluctant to have them see him like this.

Keller led him to a chair and once he'd sat down, she carefully unwound the bandage around his head, then called for the lights to be dimmed. John immediately and unconsciously thought them down to about 50 percent brightness. Keller breathed out a surprised, '_oh.'_

"Sorry," John said, "force of habit." And dammit if his voice wasn't shaking like some terrified kid.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," Keller said, sounding a little freaked out. "Okay, don't open your eyes until I say so," she directed, all efficient professionalism again as she very carefully peeled the gauze pads from his eyelids. There was a collective gasp around him.

John quirked his eyebrow, then winced, forgetting that the stitches were still there. "That bad, huh?"

"Nah, you're fine," Rodney said, his voice sounding a little strangled. "Aside from looking like Rocky Raccoon, that is."

"The bruising is from the concussion," Keller quickly explained to John. "Don't worry, that'll fade in time, too."

John nodded and took a deep breath, his eyelids fluttering with impatience and fear.

"Okay, slowly open your eyes now."

He followed her instructions and pulled his heavy, sore eyelids open. His eyelashes felt sticky as he blinked a few times. "Umm… I—" A tight, terrified lump rose in his throat, stealing his voice. He swallowed hard and took a shaky breath. He heard a _click… click… click… _instantly recognizing it as a penlight snapping on and off – he'd heard that sound far too many times while semiconscious.

"John, can you make out anything?" Keller asked. There was the_ clickclickclick _sound again, and she was so close to him that he could feel her breath on his face. "Can you differentiate any light?"

John shook his head. He closed his eyes and opened them again to the same immutable blackness. "No…" he managed to whisper. "There's nothing."

Something in John's chest seized up then and terror so complete it was near paralyzing overtook him. All sounds were suddenly muffled even as his team moved around him, their voices blending together in a concerned jumble. He wrapped his arms tightly around his aching chest and clamped his teeth so hard on his lip that he tasted blood. It was either that or start screaming, and once he did that, he didn't think he'd be able to stop.

His teammates kept calling his name. Dr. Keller had her hand on his shoulder, telling him something, but he couldn't hear her. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. He couldn't take this. There was no way he could live like this.

Someone tried to put their arms around him, and he shoved whoever it was away from him with a startled and furious snarl. He jumped to his feet and the chair clattered behind him. He wanted to run, but there wasn't anywhere he could go to get away from this terrifying dark place. He sensed everyone moving in on him and he stumbled away until his back hit the wall.

"Sheppard," Ronon's deep voice rumbled. "Take it easy, buddy."

John shook his head, trembling so hard that his teeth rattled together. Ronon caught him by the upper arms. John tried to twist out of the Satedan's firm grip, but Ronon was too strong. He pulled John away from the wall and into an intractable embrace. John tensed, shoving his fists as hard he could against his friend's ribs, trying to break free, but Ronon just stood there, taking it, never loosening his hold. Finally, John gave up and pressed his forehead against Ronon's chest. He began to cry. Ronon curled his tall frame over him, like a protective shield, saying nothing, just holding onto him.

John was still crying when Keller finally coaxed him back to his bed. He asked for his team to leave him alone then. They were hesitant and reluctant to leave him, but in time, they did as he asked. He curled up on the bed, drawing his arms around his head, and as the terrible reality of his situation took hold, John suddenly wished that he hadn't gotten out of that room, after all. He wished that his team had forgotten him there and let the world crash down on him.

The next few days, or maybe it was over a week, he couldn't remember anymore, he'd spent either sleeping, because it was easier to forget that way, or shutting everyone out. His friends kept coming to see him even though he scarcely said a word to any of them. Rodney gave him an iPod filled with about 60,000 songs, and John had listened to damn near every one of them without really hearing any of it. Twice.

Doctor Heightmeyer had tried to talk to him, too. The first time she'd approached him and asked how he was feeling, John had thrown whatever was in easy reach at her, surprising himself with the fury that now seemed to be constantly simmering within him. His uncharacteristic display of temper hadn't deterred her though. She'd come around every day, asking the same damn questions, saying the same stupid, useless things; _how are you feeling, today, John? Do you feel up to a walk? It's not good for you to shut everyone out like this, John. You need to let us help you. _She'd kept going on and on, until he'd wanted to scream at her. Instead, he'd put on the iPod headphones and cranked up the volume so loud that he couldn't hear her, couldn't hear anything, and the world went away for a while.

Doctor Keller was relentless too, constantly urging him to start getting up and joining his team for meals in the mess hall, but John refused. He didn't want everyone staring at what had become of their commanding officer, and besides, he couldn't eat anything without spilling half of it all over himself. Even more so, he didn't want his friends leading him around like some damn invalid, and he'd told them as much.

By the middle of the third week, everyone kept telling him how much better he looked. The cuts and bruises were almost gone, although he did have a 'sort of sexy,' as Elizabeth put it, scar on his left eyebrow.

One night, the infirmary had been bustling with activity, and John had overheard something about one of the teams encountering some nasty plant life and coming down with the Pegasus galaxy version of poison ivy. Using the chaotic distraction to his advantage, John slipped from bed and somehow found his way into the hallway. He'd startled a marine who was passing by, and pulling rank, John managed to convince the young soldier that he'd been released from the infirmary but needed someone to accompany him to his quarters.

Once there, John sat down on the bed and from beside the nightstand, he pulled out the bottle of Black Bush he'd been saving for a special occasion. He supposed this was as good an occasion as any.

Opening the bottle, he took a long sip right from the neck. The alcohol burned his throat and he coughed, his eyes watering. Then he took another sip. And another and another until he lost track of how much he'd drank. His head began to buzz, his limbs became heavy, but he wasn't quite there yet. He took a few more long swallows and then just sat there, allowing the effects to wash over him.

When his thoughts slowed, and everything felt distant and insignificant, he pulled himself to his feet and made his way back to the door. He found it easily enough, the room so familiar to him by now. The door opened even as he thought of it and he stepped through, turning to his left. Dragging his fingers along the wall, he let Atlantis's thrum flow through him, filling his head, as though she were singing to him, reassuring him. He thought of the balcony just a few doors down the hallway from his quarters, and it seemed as if Atlantis herself was leading the way. And maybe she was, because somehow, he knew the right doorway to step though.

When he stepped outside and onto the balcony, the wind was cold, gusting, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. He didn't really feel it, though. The alcohol had numbed him the point where he didn't feel anything anymore, which was exactly what he wanted. He tottered halfway to his feet, reaching for the railing at the same time. He knew this was a small balcony; he'd come out here often to watch the sunrises and sunsets. The view that he could no longer see was spectacular – the vast city sprawling in the distance, the waves crashing some 30 feet below.

When he found the railing, he grasped it with both hands and pulled himself up. He swung his leg over it. Overestimating the width, he wobbled and nearly lost his grip. His heart skipped a beat and fear crept in. Holding on so tightly his knuckles ached, he shifted his position so that he was straddling the railing. Halfway over the edge, halfway behind safety. The wind pushed insistently at him, almost coaxing him to do it. To let go and end this already.

Instead, he just held still for a long time, poised on the brink of an irreversible decision. The waves crashed and smacked against the walls of the city, the wind whistled through the spires, and chilled droplets splashed his face, making him shiver. He closed his eyes. He tried to summon his courage - to face this, either way.

"Sheppard!"

John startled at the panicked voice, unconsciously turning in the direction of the sound, his hands slipping a fraction.

"Don't move!" the voice shrieked, which John immediately recognized as Rodney's. "If you let go, I swear to _God_ I'm jumping in after you!"

Moving faster than John thought Rodney capable of, the scientist threw his arms around John's chest and hauled him back. John's foot caught on the railing but Rodney only tugged harder. John's shoe nearly slipped off and then they both tumbled hard to the wet balcony floor.

John rolled off his friend, sitting up on the wet ground, his heart pounding. That strange sense of grateful disbelief he always experienced after successfully dodging a bullet washed over him. At the same time, he was furious with Rodney for making the decision for him.

"You idiot!" Rodney shouted at him, lost in a fury all his own. "You damned self-centered asshole!"

John pressed his back against the railing. He swiped the water from his face. "What are you doing here, McKay?"

"What do you _think_ I'm doing?" Rodney shouted. "I was looking for _you!"_

Well, you found me," John said through gritted teeth, "so now you can get the hell out of here."

"No!" Rodney yelled, still furious. "I… I can't believe you – you… how could you even _think_ about…" His voice trailed off and John could hear Rodney's footsteps as he paced back and forth. Rodney suddenly grabbed John's upper arm and that familiar seething anger came to the surface, and John welcomed it. He sprang to his feet, furiously snatching his arm away.

"Dammit, McKay, I _told_ you to fucking go _away!"_

"And I ignored you!" Rodney shouted back. _"We_ are going back to the infirmary, and we are never mentioning this to anyone, and if you _ever_, even _think _about doing something this stupid again, blind or not, I'm kicking your ass, do you hear me?" He grabbed John's arm again, but this time, John was ready. He swung his other arm, and was surprised that he managed to crack his fist against Rodney's jaw.

Rodney cried out, both in disbelief and pain. He abruptly let go of John's arm and John stumbled, nearly losing his footing.

"Just… just go away and leave me alone, Rodney," John almost pleaded, clenching his hands into tight fists. When Rodney only tried to reach for him again, John lurched away, choking back the angry tears that wanted to come. "I said, _get out of here_, dammit!" he shouted, his voice breaking. He wanted to scream in frustration. He wanted to hit Rodney again, he wanted him to go away before he lost it completely.

"All right, fine!" Rodney shouted after a moment, his breaths angry rasps. "Do what you want! You can find your way back by yourself, for all I care."

John heard Rodney stomp off and then the whoosh of the doors opening and closing. Breathing hard and struggling to rein in his temper, John took a few shuffling steps. He didn't know which way to go. He didn't mean to take out his anger on Rodney. He didn't want to die; he just didn't want to live like _this_. He didn't know _how_ to live this way.

Hot, furious tears ran down his cold face, his chest heaved with harsh, painful sobs. John swiped his hand over his face again and tried to calm down. Shuffling his feet, he took a cautious, wobbly step in what he thought was the direction of the balcony doors. Then another. He stopped, weaving on his feet, his hands held out in front of him.

"Rodney…" he called out in a soft, uncertain voice, even though Rodney was probably long gone, calling in for reinforcements. "I… I don't…"

John heard the scrape of a boot. He startled, his head darting in the direction of the sound.

"I'm right in front of you – about ten steps straight ahead," Rodney said after a moment.

John almost cried out with relief, grateful that Rodney hadn't left him alone out here, after all, even though he deserved it. Holding his hands out in front of him, John shuffled forward, his motions clumsy, awkward and further hindered by the alcohol that seemed to be fully taking hold.

"You're almost here, move a little to your right," Rodney encouraged.

"You're a sadistic bastard, McKay," John said, shivering.

"And you're only just noticing this fact?" Rodney shot back.

John gritted his teeth and kept shuffling forward. He just wanted off this damn balcony. When he finally reached his friend, he stumbled against Rodney's side. Rodney merely held still and let John make the next move. John hesitated, and though it felt like a terrible, irreversible surrender, he reached out until he found Rodney's forearm, grasped his sleeve and held on tight.

"See, now was that so hard?" Rodney said, as John expected him to. "Letting someone help you doesn't automatically turn you into a little girl, you know."

John could only nod, too wrung out for the appropriate scathing reply.

"Come on, let's get back to the infirmary," Rodney said in an unexpectedly gentle voice. "They've probably already sent out 17 search parties for you."

"I want to go back to my quarters, instead," John said, suddenly realizing that he didn't want go back to the infirmary tonight. He wanted to be someplace familiar, someplace he knew so well it didn't matter that he couldn't see it. When Rodney started to protest, John resorted to pleading. "Please, Rodney… I just… I want to sleep in my own bed tonight."

Hard-assed as Rodney pretended to be, John knew his friend wouldn't be able to say no to a request like that, and wasn't surprised when Rodney wordlessly and abruptly changed directions and led John down the short hallway to his quarters. With each step, John couldn't help leaning a little heavier on his friend, his feet seeming to tangle up beneath him. Rodney ended up draping John's arm over his shoulder and nearly dragging him the rest of the way.

They made it to John's quarters without encountering anyone, for which both of them were grateful. Rodney dumped John rather unceremoniously on the bed then tapped on his radio and spoke too softly to Doctor Keller for John to follow what was said.

Rodney tapped the radio off again, and moved around the room. "Well, believe it or not, but you've been officially released from the infirmary. For one night, anyway."

"Cool," John said without much enthusiasm.

"Well, this explains a lot," Rodney said after a moment, and John heard a faint cluttering sound. "It also explains why you smell like a brewery, come to think of it."

"What?" John said, feeling himself listing to from side to side.

"You're drunk out of your mind, aren't you?" Rodney said, sounding oddly both incredulous and relieved. "This bottle was nearly full a few days ago. I saw it when I came in here to get your stupid Johnny Cash CD's. That's it, isn't it? You somehow found your way back here, drank damn near this entire fucking bottle, got stupid, started messing around and thought that maybe you could fly unscathed right off that balcony, right? That's what happened, isn't it?"

John blinked, momentarily confounded, then nodded, understanding all at once what Rodney needed to hear. "Yeah… that's exactly what happened," he said, deliberately slurring his words a little for effect. "You… you can't blame a guy for having a few too many under the circumstances."

"Maybe, but you're still an idiot – you know that, don't you?" Rodney told him. "Besides, if you were gonna get this drunk, you could've at least called me and shared. This stuff is expensive. How the hell _did_ you find your way back here and to the balcony, anyway?"

"Atlantis showed me," John said, snickering a little, and hell, maybe he really _was_ as drunk as Rodney thought he was.

"Atlantis, huh?" Rodney said, unimpressed. Something tugged at him and then Rodney was peeling off John's damp shirt. John just sat there, compliant, too tired to protest, and Rodney none too gently pushed him onto his side.

"Don't whine to me if you get the bed-spins," Rodney groused as he pulled off John's soggy slippers then draped a blanket over him and tucked it around his shoulders. John huddled into the warmth, burrowing his face into the soft pillow.

"Things will be better tomorrow," Rodney told him. "You'll have a hangover from hell, but everything always looks better in the morning. Or at least that's what my grandmother always said," he amended. "Oh, god… I'm quoting my psychotic grandmother…"

"Sorry for punching you, Rodney," John muttered into the pillow, and shit, the bed _was_ spinning a little. He scrunched his eyes shut, but of course, that didn't help any. "Didn't mean to actually _hit_ you."

"Yeah, well…" Rodney said. "You can make up for it by giving me the rest of your booze." There was a glugging sound and John figured that Rodney had helped himself to a long swallow.

John had fallen into a dreamless, exhausted sleep shortly after that. He and Rodney had never spoken of that night again, and John wondered if Rodney truly believed that it was too much whiskey that had led John to that dark balcony. To fly.

There was a muffled _thump_ and John jolted awake. He heard a dog yapping hysterically in the distance and then his father yelling at it to _shut the hell up, dammit!_

John's head was muzzy, his sinuses clogged and aching. The room was too stuffy, and the air smelled as dry as the deserts of Afghanistan. He opened his eyes, and even though he could feel warm sunlight on his face, he was almost startled to find the darkness still surrounding him, because every damn morning, in that space between dreaming and the real world, he'd always forget.

Sitting up and wincing at the ache in his lower back, he realized that he was still in the armchair. A blanket had been draped over him, and a pillow propped under his head. This time, he found the bathroom without adding any further bruises to his growing collection. When he made it into the kitchen, he could smell freshly brewed coffee, toast and bacon.

"I swear, I'm gonna run the lawnmower over that damn dog one of these days," William said, rattling dishes and banging pots. "You want some breakfast?"

"Sure," John said, although a Wraith bustling around in this kitchen wouldn't have seemed any less strange to him. He remembered his father being the type who didn't know how to boil water.

"How'd you like your eggs?" William asked.

"I didn't think you even knew _how_ to cook eggs," John said.

"Don't be a smartass, Johnny," William said, but John could hear the smile in his father's voice. "You live alone as long as I have, you either learn to cook or starve to death."

"Well, there's always take-out," John amended.

"Yeah," William agreed, "that's dinner. Any idiot can figure out how to make breakfast. Fried or scrambled?"

"Scrambled," John said and the smell of coffee was too strong to resist. "Where's the coffeepot?"

"I'll get it," William said.

"No, I want to," John said, one hand still on the doorframe for reference. "Tell me where it is. How many feet?"

William was silent for a moment, then said, " Straight ahead, about four feet."

John nodded and took four cautious steps forward, holding his hand out.

"A couple of more steps and you're at the counter," William added.

John followed the directions and stopped when he touched the cool tile of the countertop. He heard the sound of liquid being poured.

"The pot's old, I spill coffee all over myself all the time," William said before John could protest. "You can get the mug yourself, though. It's a few inches to your left."

John felt along the counter until he found the warm mug. He picked it up and carefully made his way to the table, which he remembered was just to the left of the doorframe. He only sloshed some coffee on his hand when he sat down. It was a small victory, but he'd take what he could get.

They shared an amiable breakfast, neither of them saying much, William leafing through the newspaper and commenting once in a while on the sorry state of the world. John would have loved to tell him that if he thought Earth was bad, he should check out some of the Wraith-torn planets in the Pegasus galaxy. But of course, he couldn't. Instead he listened to William grumbling about politics, the shrinking American economy, the never-ending turmoil in the Middle East, and John found himself marveling at how little had changed in his world.

Again, the ever-present grief for Atlantis and his lost life nearly derailed him, but John pushed it back. There wasn't any point in thinking about it anymore. It was over and done.

Later that afternoon, William left to run a few errands. John had adamantly refused an offer of having their next door neighbor, and William's friend, check in on him. Instead, John had allowed William to situate him in the living room with the Chicago Bears playing the Oakland Raiders on the television, and an assortment of potato chips, pretzels and a can of pop and beer on the coffee table in front of him.

Early the next week, John had an appointment with someone Heightmeyer had called an orientation and mobility specialist for an assessment and to start him on the seemingly impossible path to learning how to cope in a world equipped for the sighted. The day before he'd left for Earth, Heightmeyer had pressed the card with the therapist's number in John's hand. She told him that the therapist came highly recommended and that he should call her as soon as he felt ready. John didn't feel anywhere close to ready, but even still, after their breakfast, he'd asked William to dial the number for him and John had made the call.

In the meantime, because he really didn't want a repeat of the night before, John decided to do a little orientation of his own. During the commercial breaks, he slowly walked around the house, mapping out its floorplan in his mind, memorizing every obstacle, every step to every room. He was grateful his dad had bought only a small two-bedroom rancher. Even still, John banged his shins and stubbed his toes countless times, but on the sixth pass through the small house, he managed to make it back to his chair and the game with only one minor obstacle and one bashed knee. The bookcase in the hallway stuck out a little further than he remembered.

William returned at halftime with a carload of groceries, refusing John's offer to help. Once all the bags were inside, William placed one heavy plastic bag on John's lap.

"Made a stop at the library on the way home. I remember you always having your nose in a book on every road trip we took," William said, sounding embarrassed. "Audio books, I think these are called. I don't know what you like, but the librarian recommended a bunch of bestsellers." John reached into the bag to feel a number of CD cases. "Got you one of those portable CD players, too," William added. "I'll get it out of the box in a minute."

John blinked, finding himself at a loss for words. "Thanks, dad," he managed after a moment.

"Sure," William said, then cleared his throat. "So who's winning?"

"It's a tie," John told him. "I don't know about you, but _I'm_ pulling for the Bears."

"The Bears? You're kidding me," William said. "The Raiders'll kick their asses. Gotta put these groceries away before everything melts."

John nodded, settling in his chair. He pulled the audio cases from the bag, slowly counting them. There were ten in all. He knew the gift was atonement for the night before, for a lot of things, really, and John couldn't help but wonder if his old man was softening with age, or if he just felt sorry for his handicapped mess of a son. At the same time, John couldn't help being absurdly touched by the gesture.

The commentator on the television shouted in excitement, the crowd roared. The Bears had just scored a touchdown, John realized when all the shouting died down. Some things were looking up a little, anyway.

* * *

_--- tbc ---_


	4. Chapter 4

Oy, again, I have to apologize for the long delay in posting this chapter. I have no excuse other than the usual real life and danged work issues, and this chapter seemed to have a mind of its own in where it wanted to go. I do greatly hope that it was worth the wait. And once again, I have to thank you all _tremendously_ for the wonderful reviews - I'm absolutely beyond flattered, and it greatly helps make this fun obsession even more gratifying. And now... back to our story:

* * *

John coasted down the long, curved, gently sloped driveway, then just when he felt the bump of the curb, he jerked his feet and spun the skateboard in a 180. He pushed his way back to the top of the drive by practicing flips and clumsy spins, finding the garage by accidentally banging his shoulder into it.

The mid-day sun baked down on him, the air tasted of dust and sand, and the distant hum of traffic filled his ears. He missed the clean, salty air of Atlantea, missed the ever-present rush of the waves. Maybe once he'd learned to be a little more self-sufficient, he'd move to the coast and buy a place right on the beach so that he could smell and hear the ocean without even having to leave his house.

Repositioning the board, he pushed off hard with one foot, giving himself a burst of speed. He tucked into a crouch, going even faster, the grind of the board's wheels on the cobbled driveway loud to his ears. Over the sound, he heard a car nearing, and for a dizzying moment, he wanted to keep going and fly out into the street. The board's front wheels tipped off the curb, and the noise of the car's engine grew louder, almost in front of him. Making an unconscious snap decision, he hopped off backwards onto the driveway, flipping the board over with his foot and stopping its motion. The car came to an abrupt tire-squealing halt, startling him. The engine idled for a moment, then shut off, followed by the thump of a car door opening and then slamming shut.

"You know, John, I'm all for you regaining your independence and not allowing your disability to hold you back," a young woman's voice said a little breathlessly, "but I'm not so sure that boarding into the way of oncoming traffic is such a good idea."

"Yeah? Why not?" John teased, immediately recognizing his therapist Dana's slightly husky voice. He'd heard it enough during their five previous sessions – she'd talked a blue streak, he mostly listened, or pretended to listen.

"Two reasons," she shot back. "For one, aren't you a little _old_ for that?"

"Never too old," John asserted. "I'd actually rather be surfing, but the ocean's kinda too far away to walk."

"True – the surfing bites around here," Dana agreed.

"What's two?" John asked, moving the board back and forth with his foot.

"Two?"

"You said two reasons."

"Oh, right," she said, stepping close beside him. "Okay, you know Tyler, my lunatic of a 12-year-old kid? He happens to have perfect 20/20 vision and _lives_ for boarding, yet he still comes home from school just about every day with banged up elbows and knees – his chin has a permanent scab because he refuses to wear padding. I take away his board; he just borrows one off his buddies, so what can you do? Anyway, a month or so ago, he comes home from school, his eyes glazed over from a near concussion, his mouth looking like hamburger and his front teeth shattered. He tells me it was worth it though, because he'd finally 'oiled a twelve set and the wipeout was _sick_.' Cost a fortune at the dentist, I tell ya. So, two – I'd just really hate to see you mess up those nice teeth of _yours,_ bud."

"Too late – been there and done that a couple of times." John curled his upper lip to show her his own teeth. "Both of these are capped," he said tapping the front ones. "Besides, I _heard_ you coming."

"Well, you still scared the shit of me," Dana told him matter-of-factly.

"Well, _you're_ late, and _I_ got bored waiting," John said, equally casual. "Thought maybe you weren't coming, or I'd mixed up the days, or something." 

"Yeah, sorry, there was an accident on the freeway, and you weren't answering your phone – obviously otherwise occupied. So are you ready to get started?"

"Yeah, let's get it over with, I guess," John said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"That's the spirit," Dana said, patting his arm. From the very first session, John had understood why Heightmeyer recommended Dana. She only took on one client at a time, specializing in one-on-one individual mobility training in the client's own environment, which was all that John was willing to do in the way of rehabilitation at this point. Plus, Dana's straightforward approach helped John feel slightly less of a pathetic invalid. She reminded him of McKay a little, come to think of it.

He brought his heel down on the back of the board, flipping it in the air. He couldn't help a grin of triumph when he managed to catch it without bashing himself in the face.

"You know, Tyler would absolutely _kill_ for that board," Dana said, guiding him with a light touch on his arm as they made their way into the house. "Is it custom made or something?"

"It was a gift," John said, unwilling to offer any further information than that. Nancy had seen him drooling over a similar board in a store window when they'd taken a trip to California. She'd bought him the almost exact same model – actually, this one was even sweeter – and had given it to him as a joke for his thirtieth birthday. _For the old man,_ she'd laughed. Of course, he'd fallen in love at first sight – probably not the reaction she'd been hoping for.

"I'd offer to let your kid take it for a spin," he added to Dana out of politeness, "but I'd hate to be the cause of more dentist bills."

"Much appreciated," Dana said. "Three steps up," she cautioned when they neared the wooden stairs to the porch and front door.

During their first session, where she had evaluated William's home and instructed John's father on removing any potential hazards, Dana had been straight with John. Learning to get around would be challenging, as he was classified as NLP – no light perception, or suffering total blindness. She'd then reassured him that many people with the same degree of vision loss eventually learned to become independent and were living full, meaningful lives. John had been skeptical and told her as much. Besides, this wasn't living – this was merely existing, but he hadn't vocalized that – some things you needed to keep to yourself.

The lesson for the day was getting around in the kitchen – making coffee, putting a simple meal together and setting the table. Since that first assessment, William made a point of making himself scarce during John and Dana's sessions, usually hiding out next door, at his friend Norman's place. John wasn't sure if William wanted to give them space, or if he just couldn't stand to see his son reduced to this.

The making lunch lesson ended without too much of a mess, or so John hoped, although managing a can opener had been a son of bitch. By the time he and Dana finally sat down to tomato soup and ham and cheese sandwiches, his stomach was growling.

"You know, food's a lot more enjoyable when you actually _taste_ what you're eating," Dana said after he'd nearly inhaled half of his sandwich. Self-conscious eating around other people, John had gotten in the habit of wolfing down his food, therefore getting the ordeal over with as quickly as possible. Dana, of course, didn't let him get away with that. So far, she wasn't letting him get away with anything.

Feeling his face reddening, he nodded and picked up the other half of his sandwich, which Dana had instructed him to position on his plate at two o'clock. He took an exaggeratedly dainty bite and chewed it far longer than necessary.

_"Much_ better," Dana praised dryly.

He ignored her and tackled the soup. When he hunched too far over his bowl, Dana directed him to sit up straighter and take his time to slowly guide the spoon to his mouth. John said nothing, biting back his growing frustration. After what seemed to be the fifth time she'd corrected him, he tossed his spoon down with a clatter and pushed the bowl back.

"Hey, you're not even half-finished."

"I'm full," he said even though he was still hungry.

"A big guy like you can't possibly be full from a few mouthfuls of soup and half a sandwich."

"I _had_ a big breakfast," John drawled, pretending that he didn't hate every damn second of this. He stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest.

"Okay," Dana said, letting it go for the time being. "We'll try some more later."

"Actually, I don't even _like_ soup," John told her. "I mostly live on burgers and pizza."

"All things you can eat with your hands," Dana replied, not missing a beat.

"Yeah, so?"

"So, maybe one day, you'd like to go out for a nice dinner and impress a hot date with your impeccable table manners and choice of swanky establishment."

"Yeah, right," he snorted. "Like that'll ever happen."

"Why not? An attractive guy like you—I bet you had to fight off the girls with a stick in high school," Dana said, a smile in her voice.

"Not really," John said. Although he did know a girl who'd liked to beat the crap out of _him_ with _two _sticks. He quickly pushed back the thought of Teyla, or anything to do with Atlantis. "You know…" he added, slouching back in his chair and tilting his head slightly, quirking his eyebrow, "this _could_ constitute as a come on."

"Nope. I was just stating a fact," Dana replied, not put off in the slightest. "You _are _cute."

John couldn't hold back a faint smile at that. "Well, at least I still have my looks, huh?"

"Yep," she agreed. "And that was _not_ a come on in any way, shape or form. I'm just saying, don't rule out any possibilities – your life is _not_ over and there's still so much that you can do."

"Well, I think I'm gonna hold off on the wining and dining, for now," he said. "I kinda suck at the whole dating thing anyway."

"Yeah, me, too," Dana agreed. "Men are _way _too much trouble."

"And women are _worse,"_ John countered, glad they'd gotten that settled and agreed upon. "So, umm, what made you decide on such an… unusual choice of career?"

"My little brother, Darren," she said. "Yeah, I know – Darren and Dana Dawson. My parents are evil personified. Darren was born prematurely and has limited vision – he works part-time as a counselor for the visually impaired, too. He also plays the sax in a jazz band. He'd do it full-time if he could – he's always loved music."

"All I ever wanted to do was fly," John said softly, almost to himself. "That's all I was ever good at."

"I'm sure that's not true," Dana said.

"Yes… it _is,"_ he corrected, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. The skin was too warm and prickling with incipient sunburn.

"So then you just have to find something else you're good at," Dana told him, her voice firm. "What do you like to do?"

John thought a moment. "Surf, skateboard, ski, run, fly planes, fighter jets, helicopters… anything that takes you into the sky." He pretended to think it over some more, drumming his fingers on the table. "Yeah, that's about it."

He realized that he sounded angry, and wasn't surprised to find that he _was_ angry It seemed to be the only thing he was able to feel anymore.

"Yeah, well…" Dana paused, momentarily at a loss for a snappy comeback. "I'm afraid the flying's gonna be a thing of the past, bud," she finally said in a soft voice, further gentling her words by giving his fingers a quick squeeze, halting their nervous motions. "Running, boarding, skiing – we can maybe figure something out for that one of these days. But first, you need to learn how to get from point A to point B. Not just at home, but out there, in the real world, too. What do you say we start with that?"

She didn't say anything more. She just waited and kept hold of his hand until he reluctantly nodded. He pulled his hand free and swiped it over his eyes, surprised to find that his lashes were wet. "Okay," he said quietly.

_One breath at a time, John,_ he heard Teyla's voice whispering in his memory. And sometimes, that was as far ahead as he was willing to allow his thoughts to stray, because the future was still much too terrifying to contemplate._  
_

In the few weeks following the terrible night that Rodney found him on the balcony, John had sunk into a despair so helpless and so complete that he'd found it difficult to summon the energy to move, to even speak. Elizabeth and Dr. Keller had also informed him that he'd been officially placed on permanent disability, and the SGC were in the process of releasing him from the military on an honorable discharge. Elizabeth had then regretfully informed him that he had been deemed well enough to travel and they were sending him home in seven days – the following Monday.

He thought it strange how she called it 'sending him home.' Earth was no more home to him than the moon. _Atlantis_ was his home and they were evicting him from it.

Somehow, he'd managed to nod in reply – after all, he'd been expecting this any day. Elizabeth had continued to talk, to apologize to him as though this whole thing was her fault. Somehow he'd managed to tell her that it was okay, that he'd be all right, even though his chest and his stomach hurt as badly as if someone had punched him. He'd wished that she'd go away before he couldn't hold the terrible pain and grief in any longer. In the end, he'd turned his back to her, shutting her out. She'd taken the hint and finally, reluctantly, left.

In an attempt to lift his spirits, Dr. Keller had allowed him to spend his last week on Atlantis in his quarters on the condition that someone was always with him. If he'd cared enough, John could have told her that the condition wasn't a problem – McKay had scarcely left his side since that night. They'd even settled into a routine, of sorts.

Rodney would bring his ever-present laptop to John's room and work while John largely ignored him, sometimes cranking up his iPod and tuning him out. Sometimes, Rodney would talk him into coming to his lab with him, and John would sit on the low-back swivel chair that Rodney had designated as his. John would press his back against the far corner, staying out of the way, speaking only when asked a direct question. Rodney would tirelessly bustle around the room, talking non-stop without expecting John to contribute to his steady monologue. The almost continual taps of Rodney's fingers on various keyboards were strangely hypnotic, and John would listen to his friend's chatter without really registering anything he said, just focusing on the _tap tap tap_ until it became the only sound he'd hear.

The day when Teyla stopped by the lab and offered to teach John to properly meditate, to help him 'attain some peace and acceptance,' as she'd put it, was when the despondency and safe routine fell apart.

The trouble was, when John had been with the almost Ascended for six months, he'd hated meditating. He'd hated it when he'd tried coaching McKay only a few months ago, and the idea was even more ridiculous to him now. The emotions he'd suppressed for so long started rising to the surface, threatening to bubble over.

"Meditate?" he echoed, managing a snide laugh. "As in close my eyes and think of nothing?" He gestured at his sightless eyes. "In case you hadn't noticed, Teyla, I'm _already_ in the dark, and it's pretty fucking bleak in here."

"John, I did not mean—" Teyla broke off uncertainly. "Perhaps… you and I could talk, instead?" She lightly, almost hesitantly touched his arm. "You have become so silent, it is as though you have disappeared from us."

John chewed his lip a moment. "Okay, we can talk," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Hi, Teyla, how's your day going? Mine _sucks,_ but that's nothing new."

"John," Teyla said almost in admonishment.

"Why is that everyone's answer to everything, anyway?" John said, the rising anger beginning to take full hold. "'Get _in touch_ with your emotions, John, and you'll _feel_ better. _Talk_ about what you're going through so we can _help_ you with this.' How the hell is talking or fucking meditating going to help me _feel_ better?"

"Hey, Sheppard," Rodney said in a slight warning tone. "She's just trying to help."

"Yeah, well, you know what?" John countered, finding himself unable and unwilling to stop. He couldn't see either of their expressions, of course, and somehow, that gave him the strange freedom to say whatever the hell he wanted. "I wish that everyone would just back off and stop trying to help so much, because it's all _bullshit,_ and it's not making one damn bit of difference!"

Rodney started to say something else but Teyla shushed him.

"John…" Teyla grasped hold of John's forearm and he wanted to slap her small hand away, but he wasn't that far gone yet. "I am sorry," she said carefully. "Please forgive me if I have offended you or upset you."

John took a deep breath, startled at the watery, tearful sound to her voice. He was suddenly ashamed of himself. He shook his head. "No, you… I… I didn't mean—"

"I have perhaps a better idea," Teyla interrupted his helpless stammering, her voice steadier. "Will you trust me and come with me now, John?"

The renewed confidence in her voice made him curious enough to pull himself from his corner and go along with her. They left Rodney with his laptop, and Teyla held his hand as she silently led him to the transporter elevators. They went down a few floors, neither of them speaking as they headed down a long hallway. They paused a moment, and he heard the swoosh of doors opening. Once inside, John recognized the smell immediately. Wood, oil that smelled a little like sandalwood, and the faint tang of old sweat. The training room.

He frowned in puzzlement. "I _did _say that I was sorry, right?"

Teyla laughed a little. "That is not why I brought you down here, John."

"So you're _not_ gonna kick my ass?"

Teyla didn't answer, and he heard her padding away from him, then the familiar clatter of their fighting sticks. She stepped close to him and placed the sticks in his hands.

"I think you're forgetting one vital detail, Teyla," John said. Even still, he twirled the sticks experimentally. They felt good in his hands.

"I have practiced many times with my eyes covered," Teyla reminded him. "You must rely on your other senses. The sound the stick makes as it rushes through the air, the brush of wind on your skin just before the stick falls, the sound of your opponent's breaths and footsteps. The dance of your own feet as you match them, step for step."

John realized what she was trying to do and smiled a little despite himself. "You're _totally_ going to kick my ass, aren't you?"

"We shall go slowly, as you are still recovering," she corrected. "Are you ready, John?"

He nodded and raised his sticks. Teyla came at him and lightly tapped his upper arm. Sidestepping her, he swung his other arm, moving almost instinctively. He heard the satisfying _crack_ of Teyla blocking his strike, the thrum of the blow vibrating up his forearm. Raising his other stick overhead, he brought it down with a quick snap. Teyla quickly countered it, but then something unconscious and instinctive seemed to take over. He went into their familiar routine as best he could, trusting Teyla to guide him. She easily deflected the swing of his sticks. Even as he stopped checking the strength of his blows, she met him strike for strike, seemingly effortlessly, but it didn't matter. Every crack of the sticks was a release. He railed against the blackness, the unfairness of having everything that mattered taken from him. The terror of spending the rest of his life away from the only home he had ever cared about, and the team who meant more to him than his very life.

He began to swing wildly, furiously, losing all sense of where he was.

"Focus, John," Teyla called out, sounding not even the slightest bit out of breath. When he didn't listen, she tapped him on the back of his thigh, just hard enough to sting a little, to get his attention. He jumped back, nowhere near ready to slow down.

He swung in a wide, low arc, and she nearly knocked the stick from his hand with her return strike. They kept going, faster and faster until he was moving around in a tight circle, his breath coming as harsh rasps, his muscles trembling. He managed to catch Teyla on some part of her arm, and the thud of the stick hitting flesh startled him. He stumbled, somehow managing to trip over his own feet. He fell hard to the mat, instinctively throwing out his hands to catch his fall.

"John!" Teyla was beside him in an instant. "Are you all right?"

He sat up and tore a hand through his sweat-tangled hair. "Yeah," he gasped, unable to catch his breath and realized that he was crying a little. He hoped Teyla wouldn't notice from all the sweat dripping down his face along with the tears.

"I think that is enough for one day," Teyla said. She gently wiped his face with something soft, then surprised him by suddenly and tightly wrapping her arms around him. He hesitated a moment, then returned her embrace. He felt something wet against his neck, and Teyla sniffled a little before letting him go.

"I'm gonna miss this… you kicking my ass," John nearly whispered. "This place… all of you. I don't know what I'm… how I'm going to…" he shook his head, unable to articulate his fears, pressing his lips tight together.

"John, listen to me when I tell you this," Teyla said firmly as she took hold of both of his hands. "You are strong, one of the strongest, most courageous men I have ever known, but that strength lies in your heart and in your indomitable spirit, not in how well you fight, or fly a jumper or see the physical world around you. You must not allow what you can no longer do to become who you are. You must always be true to the man you are in here." She let go of his hands and placed her own small hand on his chest, right over his heart. "Will you promise me that, John?"

He thought over her words, and he wanted to listen, but it wasn't so simple. He wasn't even sure if she was right. He knew that he was no longer the same man he'd been before this happened to him. He would never be the same again. "I don't know if I can do that," he admitted. "I don't know what it's going to be like… going back."

"Then you just take things one step at a time," Teyla told him.

"Everybody keeps telling me that and—" he protested.

"And if that is too much," she broke in, her voice tremulous, "then you take it one moment, one breath at a time, until all that matters is that you _can_ still breathe, that you are still alive. And know that we will always be thinking of you and missing you, no matter where you are. It will not be the same here without you."

She gave him another quick, almost fierce hug, then took his hand, offering to help him stand. He staggered a little at the trembling ache in his muscles, but at the same time, he realized that he felt a little better, calmer somehow.

"Can we do this again tomorrow?" he asked, hopeful, and through her tears, Teyla laughed and told him that they most certainly could.

_One breath to the next, _he kept telling himself, and it became his mantra when he got so frustrated that he wanted to smash his fists through the walls. Or when he longed to shout at William, or shout at Dana and tell her to stop coming, when he wanted to just roll over and surrender.

But in time, it had begun to get a little easier, or maybe he was just getting used to life in the dark. He'd learned to walk around in public using what he called his gimp cane, with Dana walking a few feet behind him, encouraging him in a soft voice from time to time. They'd started in the park and gradually worked their way up to the nearby shopping mall where John had mortified himself by having a panic attack, overwhelmed by the cacophony of voices and intermingled, clashing smells. Dana had quickly gotten him out of there, apologizing profusely for pushing him too hard and too fast. When he'd recovered enough to talk, he reassured her that malls had always had that effect on him, even when he _could _see, earning a relieved laugh and a slap on the arm from Dana.

On their second and much more successful trip, Dana all but dragged him into a store playing some screechy rock music that was so terrible it made John wince.

"Hey, what do you say we pick out some new stylin' attire for you?" Dana said, her voice all mock innocence, but he'd come to know her well enough to figure that she'd probably been planning this.

He plucked at his faded, old denim shirt. "What's wrong with the clothes I already have?"

"That's just it – you don't _have_ any clothes," Dana said, "unless you're unnaturally attached to the same three shirts and black T-shirt I've seen you in for the past two months?"

"I don't think shopping was in your job description, was it?" John asked suspiciously.

"Hey, I'm a woman, and women always want to shop for men. It's genetically predisposed."

He mulled it over a moment – his shirts probably _were_ getting a little rank. Besides, he couldn't do this sort of thing for himself anymore, and he wasn't about to trust William's fashion sense, or lack thereof.

"Okay," he finally agreed, "but I only wear stuff that's black, white or gray."

"Those aren't colors, Sheppard, those are mindsets."

"All right, fine, _Dawson,_ blue is okay, too," he amended. "So long as it's _denim_ blue, and nothing even vaguely resembling stripes."

"Aw, and here I had this nice chartreuse and purple dress shirt already picked out for you."

"If you even _think_ about sneaking in anything purple or chartreuse, I'm firing you," John threatened. "What the hell _is_ chartreuse anyway?"

"Puke green," she answered, laughing at John's involuntary shudder.

Though he hated shopping, he had to admit that Dana picked out his new 'attire' with remarkable speed, describing each item in detail for him, and turned the experience into yet another lesson when she'd stood back and watched him struggle to pay for his purchases with his credit card.

When she dropped him home that evening, John took his time folding his new clothes and putting them away. Before he'd lost his sight, it used to be a simple task, one of those day-to-day chores you did without thinking, or grudgingly, because there were so many other things that you'd _rather _be doing. But now, it was one of the few things that he could do for himself, something he could easily manage on his own, and it lent him a much needed sense of accomplishment, of independence. Funny how things changed.

John found that not all that much had changed with his father, though. Even retired, William was still a man who loved routine and order. Up at 07:00 every morning, Sunday was bacon and eggs for breakfast and grocery shopping in the afternoon. Monday was mowing the lawn. Tuesday was bowling. Wednesday and Thursday were for household chores. Friday was poker night, and Saturday was drinks with 'the boys' at the Legion. John often found himself alone in the small house, feeling trapped, caged, while the world went on without him.

Father and son continued to behave like polite acquaintances who really weren't certain if they even liked each other, and John had no idea how to break down the wall they'd built up around each other. Maybe, like he'd told Rodney, some things simply couldn't be fixed.

They finally sat down to dinner together for the first time in an almost a week – it was Thursday, a night at home for William – and John listlessly poked at his plate of spaghetti. William had made it from scratch – yet another dish that 'any idiot could figure out how to cook,' according to the William Sheppard philosophy of cooking. John pushed his meal around on his plate, hoping that William was too busy eating his own food to notice that his son wasn't eating much. It tasted good, but John had given up trying to twirl it around his fork, a feat that seemed near impossible without being able to see it. He didn't want to make a mess in front of his father.

After a long silence, William cleared his throat. "Things going all right with that girl?"

William always referred to Dana as 'that girl,' and it never ceased to irritate John. "She _has_ a name, dad," he said, checking his impatience. "And things are going good. She thinks that you don't like her, though."

"What the hell difference does it make if I like her or not?" William said, genuinely incredulous. "She's _your_ therapist, not mine. Makes no difference to me."

"It's just that she comes here four days a week, and you haven't said two words to her," John shrugged. "Some people might take that the wrong way, is all."

"Well, she _is_ an oddball," William said shoving his chair back a little from the table. "Dresses like some hippie and her hair's even more of a mess than yours. Never know what color it's gonna be from one day to the next."

John smiled at that. "Cool. What color was it yesterday?"

"I dunno – purple, or blue or something that doesn't exist in nature," William groused. "Didn't really look all that closely."

John poked at his plate, the tines of his fork screeching against the porcelain.

"If you don't like it, don't eat it," William said.

"No… it's good," John quickly said, surprised at the wounded, resentful tone to his father's voice. It's just that…" He mimed a twirling motion with his fork.

William was silent a moment. "Oh. Ahh, right. Dammit." He snatched the plate from John's hand, startling him. John heard the scratch of a knife against the porcelain – his father cutting up his food for him. William set the plate back down in front of him again so quickly that it cluttered on the table a moment. John was too stunned to say or do anything.

"Why didn't you say something?" William snarled, dropping back into his chair, not making any effort to hide his impatience.

John's face burned with humiliation and his hands started shaking a little, but he took a few polite bites anyhow.

"Christ, you're just like your mother sometimes," William gritted out, and John froze at that. "She wouldn't open her mouth to save her damn life."

"Maybe that's because she was afraid of you," John said slowly and carefully, anticipating the brewing storm of his father's reaction to that.

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" William said in the tight, threatening voice that John remembered all too well from his childhood. He remembered the many times William had shouted and ranted at his John's mother until she'd cried. Sometimes, the sight of her tears, her weakness, would only rile William even further. John remembered all the times his father would berate her, sometimes roughly grabbing her and shaking her as though he could violently force her into becoming the perfectly poised, self-assured wife that he demanded.

"John, I asked you a question," William said when John didn't answer.

John took a deep breath. He wanted to remind his father of all those times. Of all the times William had vented his volatile, unpredictable anger not only on his wife, but John, too. Of all the times William had bullied him, all the times he'd called John _a sissy, a mama's boy, a troublemaker who would never amount to anything._

But John didn't say any of that. There wasn't any point.

"Never mind, dad," he said instead. He reached for his glass of water and misjudged the distance. It tipped over, spilling on his plate, the table and onto his lap. "Shit!" he cursed, jumping to his feet, shoving the chair back.

William cursed at the same time and came around the table. John tried to find his napkin to help clean up and ended up nearly putting his hand in his plate.

"I got it, John!" William snapped, batting his hand away. "Just… just _leave_ it."

John stepped away, unconsciously backing up until he found the doorway. Without another word, he stumbled from the kitchen, leaving William to shove chairs around, mopping up the mess he'd made. John found his way outside to the front porch, gripped the railing hard and imagined that he was standing on his favorite balcony on Atlantis, instead of this heat-blasted, suburban hellhole in Nevada. He forced back his churning emotions, crammed down the memories. He realized that the terrible nervous fear he'd lived with nearly every day as a kid in his father's house was back. The fear of never knowing what to expect. If it would be a good day or a bad one.

John took slow, deep breaths and tried not to think anymore.

_One breath to the next._

* * *

_--- tbc ---_


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and its wonderful characters belong to their respective owners, and this is all for fun and I promise to put everyone back when I'm done. Actually, Rodney and Shep will probably make a mad dash for the jumper bay and hide until the mean fic writing Canadian woman goes away for a _long_ time…

Apologies again for the long delay, but I greatly hope that this chapter was worth the wait.

* * *

The droning alarm echoed in Rodney's head, blaring precisely every three seconds. With terrified urgency, he raced down the winding corridors of the city, first one, then another, then another, never ending. He rounded a corner and without warning, slammed through a set of doors, stumbling outside onto a rain-spattered, stormy balcony. The doors shut behind him, abruptly cutting off the alarm, replaced with the sound of crashing waves. 

Suddenly, Rodney couldn't move, he couldn't even breathe. All he could do was stare at John who was perched on the balcony railing, tightly gripping to the top rail with shaking hands, his slender body swaying in the gusting wind. Rodney couldn't find his voice, couldn't manage to call to his friend, couldn't take a single step nearer. He couldn't do a damned thing. John slowly raised his head, his face pale and rain-splattered. As though he could still see, John's bruised eyes locked on Rodney's for an endless, condemning moment. Then, without hesitation, John swung his legs over the rail and let go.

Rodney jolted awake, crying out in wordless horror, his heart racing. Staring wide-eyed around the shadowy room, he tried to orient himself with the vestiges of the terrible dream still playing in his mind.

"Shit," he hissed, tearing a hand through his hair. He'd fallen asleep at his desk again. Wincing, he stiffly pulled himself up straighter and glanced at his watch: 04:17. Cursing again, Rodney ground his teeth in frustration. He knew he wouldn't sleep any more tonight.

In truth, he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in months. How could he when M3R-6P8 continued in some way or another to make an almost constant unwelcome appearance in his dreams?

The recurring dream of that room was always the same. He always found himself back there with John, only their rescue never came in time. The countdown always reached zero, John always suddenly jerked awake at the last possible second, struggling in Rodney's arms and calling out his name. Then everything crashed down on them. That was always when Rodney woke up, always just managing to choke off a scream.

That dream was easy to interpret, and he tried not to let it freak him out too much. Near death experiences were bound to mess you up a little – he knew that all too well, having survived more than one, and it was perfectly understandable under the circumstances. The fact that over four months had passed didn't give him too much cause for alarm. After all, the subconscious has a long memory.

The dream of the balcony never varied either, and though it wasn't quite as persistent, that one _did_ freak him out. He knew that John, back there in real time, never had any intention of letting go of that railing. He'd simply been too stupid drunk and too disoriented to know what he was doing. Hell, he'd probably had no idea where he even was at the time, and Rodney was just thankful that he'd found his friend before he accidentally slipped.

At least that was what Rodney had convinced himself of back then, and he was sticking to it now.

Thankfully, the past month had gone by without too much of significance happening on Atlantis and Rodney was perfectly happy to keep things that way. As sleep deprived and screwed up as he was feeling, he didn't think he'd be able to handle any further incidents of impending doom and mass destruction.

Part of the reason for the lack of excitement was the fact that Elizabeth still hadn't found anyone willing to be their new team leader. Maybe word had gotten around since the incident with Major Hardy, or maybe no one was up to the daunting task of taking them on, Rodney wasn't sure, and he honestly didn't really care. It didn't appear to bother Teyla and Ronon much, either. They seemed content to spend their days training the soldiers in psychotic Athosian and Satedan fighting techniques, and Rodney found that he was happy staying in his labs. As far as he was concerned, maybe it was best to leave things that way.

Stumbling to his feet, Rodney put on a pot of industrial strength coffee. He figured he may as well try to do something productive. He'd been working again on the prototype hyperspace generator for the jumpers, and, even though he'd written the thing himself, the equations just weren't making any sense. Of course, he'd been nearly Ascended at the time, but the knowledge _must_ still be in there somewhere, right?

Six cups of coffee later, which had Rodney's veins nearly thrumming like live wires, and he'd accomplished nothing even vaguely resembling progress, Radek came in. The man's hair was even more of a mess than usual, shirt untucked and looking as though he'd just crawled out of bed.

Rodney looked him up and down. "Rough night?"

Rubbing his eyes, Radek nodded. "I stayed awake much too late looking over the databases on your tablet. You _must_ take a look at it, Rodney."

"And you _must_ be losing your hearing, or becoming prematurely senile, because I've told you more than once that I'm not interested," Rodney snapped. He was already beyond irritated with the other man, and he'd only been in the room for thirty seconds.

The tablet in question was the one containing the downloaded files from the Ancient facility on M3R-6P8. To Rodney's initial and utter disbelief, one of the marines had grabbed it just before their mad dash from the room and outside to safety. The kid had probably thought he was doing Rodney a favor in saving his work, but to Rodney, the damned thing was like a bad penny, turning up every time he turned around.

Rodney had tossed the tablet, information and all, into a corner of his office with the vague intention of looking at it, oh… _never._ He'd even managed to forget about it until a few weeks ago, when Radek had accidentally stumbled upon it Since then, Radek had become obsessed with whatever the hell might be on it, and even Rodney's foulest of tempers could do nothing to dissuade the man.

The trouble was; Rodney not only had no interest whatsoever in looking at the databases, he despised the mere sight of the tablet itself. The logical, rational part of his brain knew that hating an inanimate object was childish and beyond ridiculous, but the irrational and suddenly alarmingly predominant side couldn't seem to help it. He was even coming pretty damn close to loathing himself for his pathetic fear and weakness.

"Rodney, I understand that you have bad memories of that place," Radek said, and his patient understanding only further pissed Rodney off. "But the information on here is—"

"So what's stopping _you_ from figuring it out?" Rodney interrupted without looking at the other man. "Do you want me to hold your hand, or something?"

Radek let out an impatient sigh. "No Rodney, I do not want you to hold my hand – _ever._ The fact that I do not understand Ancient as well as you do, is what is stopping me."

"So? Go ask Elizabeth to translate for you."

"_Rodney_... this information could be very important to us," Radek shook his head in confusion. "This is not like you."

"What can I say," Rodney sneered. "I've adopted a new attitude towards Ancient technology; unless I know for sure that there's a ZPM involved, I'm not interested."

With that, he turned his back to the other scientist. Radek muttered something disgruntled in Czech and went back to the tablet. Rodney went back to his prototype that would never work in a million years, but you never knew when persistence would pay off. Maybe it would all come back to him. _Yeah, right,_ he thought.

He took a deep breath and let it out in a frustrated sigh. Even still, he kept working, trying to zone out and lose himself in his incomprehensible task. Except as he typed, he couldn't stop glancing at the raised scars on the backs of his hands. Those scars and some slight numbness in his left ring finger and pinkie were the only repercussions he had suffered from the explosion. It just didn't seem right to have gotten off so easy.

Despite the many times John had tried to convince him otherwise, Rodney knew for an absolute certainty that they would have made it out of that room in time if only he hadn't been so fucking stupid and gone back for that damned tablet. The fact that the thing had turned up yet again without so much as a scratch almost seemed as though fate was chortling at him; _you wanted this information so badly? Well here, it _is,_ asshole!_ One thoughtless, reckless act, all for some databases that were probably useless in the long run, and it had cost John everything. There was no possible way to atone for something like that.

Rodney did try to make it up to his friend as best he could. He had never mentioned what had happened on that balcony to anyone, not even Teyla and Ronon, but he'd watched over John every day and most of the nights since then. Even when John had decided to shut right down, sometimes exerting little more energy than it took to breathe, Rodney had refused to take any chances, ensuring that his friend was never left alone for more than a few minutes at a time.

In turn, John had tolerated Rodney's presence, so long as Rodney allowed John to be the one to determine when and if he needed help. After a while, Rodney became the only one who John would accept much assistance from, and Rodney had found that his friend's reliance, as grudging as it may have been, eased some of his own relentless guilt. So they had helped each other, Rodney supposed.

After Elizabeth had broken the news to John about his discharge and upcoming one way trip back to Earth, he had retreated even further into his dark and angry world. And as Rodney tirelessly watched over his friend, with each passing day, he couldn't help but wonder if everything they had seen and experienced in the Pegasus galaxy had been worth it, after all. He thought of Carson and how randomly he'd been taken from them, and how he would never stop missing his friend. He thought of all the ways they had messed with an already screwed up galaxy. He thought of how, no matter what they did, no matter how hard they tried to make a difference, nothing ever seemed to come to fruition. All they seemed to have accomplished so far was to make things worse.

It had taken a few more days of serious consideration, and then Rodney came to a decision.

Waiting for John to come back to his room from yet another exercise in masochism – or stick fighting with Teyla – as John preferred to call it, Rodney paced impatiently. Now that he had made up his mind, he wanted to put his decision out there and get this over with.

Finally, the doors whooshed open and Teyla led an exhausted looking John into the small room. She greeted Rodney, gave John a gentle hug and whispered some words of encouragement in his ear before leaving for her own quarters. As soon as the doors closed again, Rodney turned to John, wasting no time.

"Listen, Sheppard, I want to talk to you about something."

John frowned a little at that, his hand still on the doorway, grounding himself. "Can it wait for a minute?" He pulled at the collar of his sweat-dampened T-shirt. "I need a shower, _bad_."

"Just… just give me one second," Rodney said, unconsciously waggling his finger at his friend. "I've been thinking about this for a while now and I… I've decided to take a leave of absence and go back to Colorado with you… just for a while."

"_What_?" John nearly gasped, dropping his hand from wall, completely taken by surprise.

"Just for a while – six months, tops," Rodney quickly said, ducking his head and pacing in a tight, nervous circle. "I know that the SGC offered to set you up in one of the best learning facilities for the visually impaired, but Elizabeth told me that you won't even _hear_ about going there, and… and it's not like you can fend for yourself, not yet anyway, and you need someone to help you out until then, and since we've kind of gotten some of this figured out _already,_ I was just—"

"McKay!" John almost shouted, waving his hand as though he'd been trying to get Rodney's attention throughout his rambling. Startled, Rodney stopped in mid-sentence, in mid-pace.

"I… I can't let you do that, Rodney," John added in a softer voice, almost stunned by the suggestion.

"No, I _want_ to," Rodney protested. "It's the least I can do after what happened and—"

"It's the _least_ you can do?" John echoed slowly, his mouth dropping open a little, and Rodney could all but see the realization dawning on his friend's all too expressive features.

Rodney cursed under his breath at his own stupidity, for his mouth getting ahead of his brain, as usual. "Nonono!" he quickly protested. "That's not what I meant!"

"Yes… it _is…"_ John said, and tore a hand through his sweat-tangled hair. "McKay, we have _had_ this conversation before. What happened back there was _not_ your fault."

"Yes, it _was,"_ Rodney said, jutting out his jaw, and crossing his arms over his chest. "If I'd just listened to you, we would have made it out of there in time, and you wouldn't have…" He broke off at that, unable to say the words. "And then when I heard that damned countdown, I panicked and… and I couldn't _think_. I froze – plain and simple. You know it and I know it, so stop saying otherwise. "

"Once we were locked in, there was nothing you could have done to make any damned bit of difference," John insisted.

"You don't know that!" Rodney shouted.

"And neither do you!" John shouted back. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe there _was_ no other way out? You're so smart it scares me sometimes, but your intelligence doesn't make you fucking omnipotent, Rodney."

Rodney stared at his friend, and he wanted to say that _yes,_ sometimes his intelligence _did_ do just that. Sometimes he could think his way out of seemingly any impossible situation, all the while wondering what he should have for lunch, but this time, something had snapped. Something had been different, and maybe if he could get away for a while, where he could think clearly, he could figure out just what that was.

"There's _always_ another way out," he said, instead. "There's always a failsafe, or a flaw in the programming."

"It was an _accident,_ Rodney," John said, carefully finding his way to the bed and sitting down heavily on it. "You didn't mean for this to happen, and I know you tried to get us out there, so _stop_ beating yourself up over it, dammit. It's _done."_

"Okay, fine, so... so maybe I'm feeling a little burned out. Maybe I'm a little overworked and overstressed and maybe some significant time on good old screwed up planet Earth is exactly what I need," Rodney shot back almost desperately. Now that he'd made up his mind to leave, the thought of having to stay here with this terrible, unrelenting remorse, this gnawing sense of futility, was almost unthinkable. "I mean, _God,_ what about shore leave? I haven't been home since I saw Jeannie, and that was for what? A _day?_ It'll be… _nice_ to get away from here for a while, so don't think it'll be some big sacrifice, or anything."

John scowled and swiped a hand over his face. "McKay, if you need a vacation, then _take_ a damn vacation. Go to Mexico or Hawaii for a couple of weeks like most people do. Or even easier, go to the mainland. Hang out on the beach, check out the hot Athosian chicks and get drunk. I _know_ you – in a week, you'll be _dying_ to come back here and to your… science stuff."

"No, I won't," Rodney said through gritted teeth. He began pacing again. This was _not_ going the way he'd planned. John just wasn't getting it. Or more likely, he was flat-out _refusing_ to get it.

"Look, Rodney… it's been a really… _bad_ time, and you're still a little freaked out," John said surprisingly gently, trying to make peace. "That's normal, so just cut yourself some slack for once and give it time."

Rodney stopped and stared at his friend. Maybe John _did_ get it, after all. He just wasn't playing along, and it was seriously pissing Rodney off. "Since when are _you_ so touchy feely self-help book, all of a sudden?" he snapped.

"Since you decided to throw away everything that you've worked for!" John shot back.

"I _said,_ it would just be for a while," Rodney protested. "Just until you learn to get around on your own."

"McKay, they need you _here."_

"They'll manage without me."

"And what happens after that?" John said quietly.

"What?" Rodney stopped for a moment. "I… I don't know," he stammered. "Why does everything always have to be drawn out in numbers and figures with you? What do you say we play it by ear, and I'll figure something out then? How about that?"

"McKay, there's nothing to figure out," John said, shaking his head. "I'll be _fine_ on my own." Rodney snorted at that and continued to pace, his body somehow trying to keep up with his racing thoughts. "And stop that damned pacing, you're making me dizzy," John complained, startling him.

Rodney froze, and stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words.

"I can _hear_ your footsteps," John explained, sensing Rodney's confusion. "Not to mention, you're causing a draft."

"Oh…" Rodney shook his head, waving his hands, impatient with himself. "Right. Of course." He forced himself to sit down in the chair close beside John's bed. "So what are you saying – you're going back by yourself and _then_ what are you gonna do? Take up the banjo and spend the rest of your life on some street corner playing for spare change?"

"The banjo?" John said, raising an eyebrow.

Rodney pointed a warning finger at him. "You know what I mean, dammit, and answer the question."

"If you would stop _talking_ long enough, I'd _tell_ you."

Rodney crossed his arms indignantly over his chest. "Okay, fine, so tell me."

John took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck as if his muscles were sore. "I didn't want to say anything just yet, but… a few days ago, I asked Elizabeth to have General O'Neill look up my father and send a message to him. Turns out, the old man is retired and living in Reno, and he said that I can stay with him for a while." John spoke the words quietly, his head ducked down, already anticipating Rodney's strong reaction.

Rodney didn't disappoint him as disbelief and outrage swelled in rapid succession. "_What! _Your _father_?" he sputtered, jumping back to his feet and pacing helplessly again. _"The_ father you told me you can't _stand_? The guy who treated you like shit when you were a kid?"

"I only _have_ one father, McKay."

"You're not _seriously_ taking him up on that, are you?"

John took a deep breath, frowning, his fingers plucking nervously at the hem of his untucked T-shirt, as though he was still mulling it over. "Yeah, I am," he said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm.

"Have you completely lost your mind!" Rodney shouted. John flinched, but Rodney had no intention of backing down. "I always knew you had a masochistic streak what with how you let Teyla beat you up on an almost daily basis, but this… this _really_ takes the prize! You'd rather go live with your father who you haven't spoken to in years because he was such an asshole to you, than let me help you out for a while?"

John nodded, raising his head, decision made. "Yes."

"That makes absolutely _no_ sense whatsoever!" Rodney threw his hands in the air in frustration.

"Look, I appreciate the offer. I do…" John said quietly, his face for once unguarded, guileless, "and I'm grateful for everything you've done for me since this happened, but you _can't_ babysit me anymore." He paused to take a shaky breath, ducking his head again in that unconscious mannerism, hiding his expression. "It's bad enough that my life got fucked up, but don't do this to yourself, Rodney, please don't."

Rodney stared at his friend and all the anger depleted in a sudden rush, leaving him oddly drained. His eyes burned with frustrated, threatening tears, and he sat back down again. He had absolutely nothing to say that, because there really was no way to fix this, was there? He just wasn't sure if he could do this anymore. Wasn't sure that he could withstand losing any more people he cared about, if he could handle the overwhelming responsibility of continually altering the fate of this galaxy. All he knew was that his way out, his excuse for leaving all this behind was gone.

"So that's it?" he finally said.

"Yeah, that's it," John said. "Can I take my shower now?" he added, tilting his head slightly, another peace offering.

"Go ahead, you're the guy calling all the shots, anyway," Rodney said, waving in the direction of the bathroom. "And you _do_ stink."

John pulled a wry face, got to his feet and carefully made his way to the bathroom.

"Yell if you need anything," Rodney called after him like he always did.

"I won't," John said in his usual response, and closed the door behind him. The only time he'd allowed Rodney to help him with anything so personal was when he'd asked Rodney to line up everything in the bathroom and shower stall in such a way that he could feel for what he needed. If John noticed that Rodney carefully realigned every misplaced item after he'd finished, he wasn't saying. Somehow, they did have this whole routine figured out, and Rodney couldn't believe that it would all come to an end in less than a week.

John stayed in there for so long that Rodney was starting to worry he'd drowned himself or somehow managed to silently fall and crack his skull open, but then John finally emerged from the bathroom, his face a little flushed, and a towel wrapped around his waist.

"There's some sweats on the bed," Rodney said, barely looking up from his laptop. With the volume turned low, he was playing his own version of Doom, blasting the shit out of virtual Wraith, Iratus bugs and Replicators in a half-hearted attempt at venting some of his frustration and growing despondency.

"Thanks," John said, dropping onto the bed. He started pulling on the warm clothing that Rodney had placed at the foot of the bed where he could find them. "Umm… Rodney…?"

"What," Rodney said expressionlessly, never taking his eyes from his game.

"I was thinking… I _will_ need someone to take me to the SGC, and to meet up with my dad," John said almost nonchalantly as he struggled to pull on his socks over still damp feet, "and I… thought that maybe… if you still wanted to get away for a while…"

Rodney looked up at that, at the unconsciously hopeful look on John's face. Rodney jumped when his virtual Doom solider screamed in muted agony as some Pegasus galaxy monster or other took him down. Tossing his laptop aside, he pretended to consider John's offer for a moment, as if he could ever consider turning him down. "Yeah, I suppose… I could probably get away for a couple of days," he replied casually. "I've never been to Reno before, either."

"Cool," John said, smiling a little as he managed to yank up his sock, the lines of tension around his eyes relaxing with relief and gratitude.

And three days later, John and Rodney stepped through the gate and back to Earth. It was the second worst gate trip that Rodney had ever taken, second only to the terrible day they had brought Carson's body home to his family.

In Reno, after John had gotten in his father's car with the quiet, resigned demeanor of a man accepting a life sentence in prison, and the Explorer had disappeared from sight, Rodney stood alone in the nearly empty airport parking lot with helpless tears running down his face.

In that moment, he'd known in his heart that he'd never be able to get past what he'd done to his friend.

He'd stood there for a long time, long enough for the sun to fully rise and shine warmly down on him.

When he managed to pull himself together, he'd gone back into the airport, found a payphone and called Jeannie. She had just finished breakfast, and amidst intermittent interruptions from Madison, and whatsisname – Rodney could never remember his brother-in-law's name – Rodney and Jeannie had ended up talking for over two hours. He found himself ricocheting from laughter to near tears as they talked about anything and everything; the stupid stuff they'd done as kids, what their parents, if they were still alive, would think of them now. Jeannie told him about the papers she was presently working on, just for fun. Rodney immediately found holes in every one of her theories, which she cheerfully told him to stuff up his ass. She told him of Madison's latest exploits, and how, so far, her daughter was more interested in Barbie than relativity and time continuum theories.

Right there and then, Rodney made a vow to take that vacation sooner than later and visit his family for at least a week. Just to set his niece straight, before she became hopelessly corrupted by corporate materialism, of course. At the same time, he was starting to realize the true importance of family and how easily it could be stolen from you.

Rubbing his eyes, Rodney gave up on the prototype and snapped the lid of his laptop shut. It just wasn't coming back to him, and he found that he was too tired to care. Almost light-headed with exhaustion and faint nausea roiling his stomach, he stumbled to his quarters for the first time in almost 23 hours. He stripped out of his uniform shirt, pulled on his favorite 'Genius' T-shirt, dropped onto his unmade bed and fell asleep almost the second his head hit the pillow.

Seemingly moments later, he was wakened by Elizabeth calling on his radio, worried about him. He pleaded a migraine, then glanced at his watch, surprised that he'd managed to sleep for almost two hours without dreaming. His eyes still burning with fatigue, his thoughts muzzy and his head buzzing with the threat of a true headache, he sighed, turned over and went back to sleep.

A few more hours later, he returned to the lab to find Radek still there. The other man was now hunched over the mainframe computer, watching something scrolling over the large monitor in front of him. Rodney took that as a good sign that Radek had finally given up on the other databases.

"Look at the fourth line from the bottom," Radek said without looking at him and pointing at the screen. "Does that look like a gate address to you?"

Curious, despite his unrelenting bad mood, Rodney squinted over Radek's shoulder. "Definitely a gate address," he muttered, rubbing his still bleary eyes.

"That is what I thought," Radek said. "I compared it with the other addresses in our database and did not find a match."

"So this is a new address?" Rodney asked, still too muddled from his long nap to think clearly.

"Yes," Radek said, nodding and scrolling the text down a little further.

Rodney continued reading over the other man's shoulder and something about the text seemed familiar. "Wait a minute, where did you get this?" He stared at the screen some more, then turned to gape in outrage at his colleague. "You sneaky little four-eyed bastard!"

Radek gave him a smug smile, not the least bit put off. "I merely uploaded the information from the tablet to our own database. This portion here was encrypted, but I managed to crack the code."

Now that Rodney had seen it, he couldn't _unsee_ it, like one of those hologram drawings where you looked for a hidden picture in the midst of some random scribbling. It drove you _nuts _until you found a crappy image of a dog, or a bird, and then, much as you wanted to, you couldn't erase it from your mind's eye.

Wide-awake now, and staring at the screen, Rodney thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd been wrong about the uselessness of those databases.

He snapped his fingers at Radek. "Move."

Radek rolled his eyes, but got up from his chair. Rodney sat down without taking his eyes from the screen. He scrolled down a few pages. He scowled, then typed in a few commands. What looked like a wire-frame rendering of an Ancient facility popped up. He rotated the image and saw the outlines of a command center, a control chair, and what looked very much like their own medical lab. Atlantis on a smaller scale.

It was the control chair that mainly caught Rodney's attention, but he set the growing excitement aside for the time being. He poured over the details, scrolling around some more and that old familiar rush began to fill him.

He tapped his radio. "Elizabeth," he said with a happy grin. "I have something you need to see, right away."

---A---

Two days later, Rodney found himself in a jumper for the first time in a little over three months, along with Teyla, Ronon and Major Lorne at the helm.

They had sent the MALP through to the gate address the day before, and it had revealed a surprisingly intact and seemingly empty Ancient city, similar in structure to Atlantis, only much smaller and set on dry land. The planet itself had a safe, breathable, atmosphere and was occupied by some indigenous wildlife and a small population of people situated about 150 miles from the abandoned city.

As Rodney had expected, Elizabeth readily agreed to an exploration mission, or rather, she'd relented after listening to Rodney prattling on for a full ten minutes about potential ZPM's, jumpers, drones, weapons, and possible new medical equipment.

"I thought you weren't interested in going on off-world missions anymore," she'd said, looking at him almost mischievously

"This one is different," he'd said, and while the potential gold mine of Ancient technology that lay before him was damn near enough to make his head explode, what Rodney couldn't stop thinking of the most was that control chair.

Elizabeth had just watched him a moment then smiled. "Well, I _am_ glad to see that you've regained your usual enthusiasm. I was starting to miss that."

Rodney had scoffed at her, brushing it off as merely part of his job, but in truth, he'd kind of missed his old enthusiasm, too.

But as they flew the cloaked jumper over the dead, abandoned city, his hopes began to fade. It was becoming evident that the planet had been culled; there were still scorched marks on sides of the intricately structured buildings, and one of the spires had toppled, taking down smaller structures along with it. Lorne pointed to what looked like a small landing strip and began to take the ship down in a slow, gentle landing.

The team stepped outside to chilled air, damp with tendrils of fog and smelling of old ash, metal and something else that Rodney couldn't pinpoint. If desolation had a smell, he supposed that would have been it.

Detector in hand, team following behind him, Rodney headed toward a cluster of reasonably intact buildings, only a few of the stained glass windows blown out. As he walked, he noticed bright green moss snaking along the cracks in the metal walkway – it looked as though no one had been here in a very long time.

So far, the detector wasn't picking up on much of anything, no life signs, and no energy readings. He bit back the disappointment and kept walking. _It has to still be here. It has to be,_ Rodney chanted to himself. It just wouldn't be fair to come all this way, after so much had happened only to discover that the Wraith had blown the place to kingdom come.

"McKay?" Ronon called questioningly to him, but Rodney impatiently shook his head and kept walking, still not picking up so much as a hint of a reading, but he'd be damned if he gave up on this.

He turned slightly to his right and then, so faint that he almost missed it, a tiny blip appeared on the screen – an energy reading. He started walking faster. He kept heading right, striding toward a building with a rounded, carefully constructed roof, and the reading increased in strength. They were directly in front of the open doorway of the building. Ronon placed a big hand on Rodney's chest, halting him, and the large Satedan and Teyla cautiously aimed their weapons inside before allowing him to enter, Lorne taking their six.

Stepping inside, Rodney wandered into the center of an empty, large, domed-ceiling room. It almost looked like an amphitheater. He glanced up that the ceiling to see a muted kaleidoscope of colored glass, some of it still intact. The energy reading grew stronger, and he slowly walked until he was at the far end of the room. The light on his scanner pulsed off and on, and _yes,_ Rodney thought, hope surging within him, _there is definitely something here._

He stopped so suddenly that Ronon, who he hadn't realized was following close behind him, nearly bowled him over.

"Here," Rodney said, wide-eyed, and though he spoke quietly, his voice echoed around the room. In another life, he would have loved to bring a piano in here and play some of Beethoven's concertos or perhaps some Chopin. "It's right here."

Ronon stared at him a moment and looked around at the empty room and elaborately curved metal columns winding up to the rounded ceiling.

"No," Rodney shook his head. He crouched down, placing the scanner almost on the floor and the reading became even stronger. "Here."

He felt along the floor, and Ronon, realizing was he was doing, crouched down to help. Where the reading seemed the strongest, Rodney ran his fingers along the floor, and there it was. A crack in the otherwise featureless surface. Ronon pulled out one of his gazillion knives and ran it along the edge, revealing a trap door about four feet by four feet wide. They tried to get their fingers under, but the panel was too tightly wedged in to be able to pull it free.

Without a word, Ronon sprang to his feet, urging Teyla to follow, leaving Lorne and Rodney alone in the room. Rodney continued to scan for readings, then flinched at the sound of Ronon's blaster. Lorne darted in the direction of the door and then Ronon, followed by Teyla, trotted back in, a long metal pipe clutched in his hand, the sharp, blasted end still smoldering.

Ronon wedged the sharp end in the crack in the floor and wriggled it back and forth. Then, his muscles straining, tendons standing out on his neck, he put all his weight on the pipe. It began to bend under the strength of his grip, then an edge of the trap door raised up a few inches.

Rodney, Teyla and Lorne got their fingers underneath and tugged at the panel until it popped open with such sudden ease that Rodney nearly topped onto his backside.

Stale, pungent air wafted into the room. Rodney cautiously peered down a shaft, which the open door now revealed, but it was too dark to see further than a couple of feet. He shined his light into the hole and saw a long drop and a ladder affixed to the far back wall of the shaft that was no more than three and half feet wide.

"Oh, this is just great," Rodney breathed out. Claustrophobia and his renewed fear of the dark all in one neat package.

Teyla laid a hand on his shoulder. "Will you be all right, Rodney?" she said, evidently remembering their last mission all too well.

Rodney looked down the long, dark passage. _Alice's rabbit hole,_ he thought, and all the nasty, crawly things that could be lurking down there, just waiting for someone stupid enough to come along. Then he thought of the facility and what it could mean for them. He took a deep breath and nodded. "I'll be okay, but… uh, ladies first?" he said with a hopeful, sheepish grin.

_"I'll_ go first," Ronon growled, shooting Rodney a glare that was somehow both menacing and protective at the same time.

"Wait," Lorne said, pulling some glow sticks from his pack. "Let's take a look at what we're dealing with before _anyone_ goes." He cracked a couple of them and threw the brightly glowing, neon-colored sticks down the hole. They seemed to take way too long to reach the bottom before Rodney heard the faint click of their landing.

"I'd say it's only about 20 feet," Lorne said peering downwards, "and it looks clear."

Rodney cursed under his breath and added his slight nervousness around heights to the overall suckiness equation.

Ronon climbed down first. He placed his light on the floor so that the others could see as they made their way down. Teyla went next, followed by Rodney. Lorne was the last to go, watching their backs.

With only their flashlights lighting the way, they had to walk down another long, straight corridor, the detector pulsing stronger than ever and leading the way. All the while, Rodney's heart was pounding so hard he was certain the others could hear it.

At the end of the corridor they found a sealed, bulkhead-type door. Rodney easily found the control panel and, after a few adjustments, the door slid open. He quickly disabled the door by removing the center control crystal from the panel, and tucked the crystal in his pocket. He was taking no chances of a repeat of the last Ancient facility they'd discovered.

The door remained open as they stepped inside the dark room and a shadowed real-life version of the rendering appeared before Rodney's eyes. His hands started shaking, his heart was racing so fast that his chest ached. Even though he knew that the door was disabled and there was no possibility of it sliding shut on them, every instinct was screaming at him to get the hell out while he still had the chance.

_Stop it, dammit,_ he told himself. _Don't think about that. Just _stop_ it._ And somehow, he managed to push the near-overwhelming fear aside. Somehow, he was able to distance himself from it, as though this was all happening to someone else. He shined his flashlight along the walls and found the control panel for the lights. They were just like the ones on Atlantis, and after a few keyed-in commands, the lights slowly came to life, illuminating the room in a soft blue-white glow.

"Wow," Lorne breathed out, looking all around him.

Rodney turned away from the panel to look, and it _was_ impressive. It was the Atlantean control room on a much smaller scale. A control chair similar to their own stood in the center of the room, only this one was more compact than their own, almost delicately contoured. Excitement filled Rodney at the sight of it, but he was determined to leave it for later.

He scanned the room, and his heart took a skittering extra beat at the sight of the consoles flanking the walls. Gritting his teeth Rodney pushed down thoughts of that other console. It would _not_ happen this time. This time would be different.

Carefully, he pulled his tablet from his pack and laid it down on a dusty chair where it couldn't piss off any of the Ancient technology. Swallowing back fear that was threatening to take hold again, he called up the screen and stared at the rendering. The room they were in was the hub; the med lab was on the door to the left, another control room was to the right.

"This way," he said, gesturing vaguely to the left, his eyes still on the screen.

They cautiously made their way to the med lab, and Rodney jigged the sealed door again, deactivating the closing mechanism. As soon as the door opened, they were immediately assailed with the unmistakable stench of decay. Rodney quickly held his breath, clamping his hand over his nose and mouth.

_Oh, great,_ he thought, only a little panicky. Maybe they wouldn't die from booby-trapped technology, but they might just expire from Ancient germs, horrific plagues or manufactured highly contagious diseases.

Ronon and Lorne stepped in first, weapons raised, but the only threat presented to them was the assault to their olfactory senses. Two mummified bodies with electrodes still attached their chests and foreheads lay on a pair of gurneys. Another body, wrapped in a moldering blanket, was huddled in a corner on the floor.

Rodney surmised that the poor bastards had probably had been forgotten in the panic of the Wraith attacks.

The lab itself was small, but seemingly fully equipped. A large scanner stood beside one of the occupied gurneys, and a scattering of unfamiliar looking medical equipment lay strewn about, as though whoever had been using it had fully intended to come right back. Carson would have gone nuts at the sight of this place, Rodney thought, and that now familiar grief for his friend filled him once again.

The next room was similar to the grounding stations on Atlantis, the hum of the power supply echoing almost pleasantly around him. Rodney looked around for the power supply itself, running his hands along the equipment, but he couldn't find any panels that would open.

Satisfied, Rodney made his way back to the main room, his team following along behind him. He stopped in front of the control chair and glanced at Lorne who had come to a halt at his side, gazing with mild interest at the ancient mechanism, his rifle held at ease across his chest.

Rodney watched the younger man and chewed on his lip in guilty anticipation. There was a reason he had specifically asked for Lorne to accompany his team, and it wasn't just because they had needed a skilled pilot. Rodney had asked for the major because he badly wanted to make use of the man's natural Ancient gene. Of course, he'd admitted none of this to anyone, but now was the moment of truth.

"Sit down in that for a second," he said, all feigned nonchalance and pointed at the control chair.

"What?" Lorne gaped at him in astonishment, then looked nervously at the chair. "I… I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Dr. McKay," he protested.

"Just for a second," Rodney said, "I want to see if it works." Lorne only stared at the chair, not moving any closer to it. "Oh, _come on,"_ Rodney said, impatience overriding his guilt. He snapped his fingers, diverting Lorne's attention. The major glanced at Rodney with both nervousness and irritation.

"Next to Sheppard and Carson, your Ancient gene is the strongest that we know of, and I just want to see if it reacts to you," Rodney explained. "Besides, I _highly_ doubt that you'll be able to do much more than turn the thing on, so stop being such a pansy and sit down already."

Lorne scowled furiously at him, then reluctantly sat down. He tightly gripped the armrests, the toes of his boots firmly planted on the floor, as though ready to spring back up at the first sign of trouble.

Nothing happened.

Rodney bit back a curse. "Okay then, think _on,"_ he directed. Lorne shot him a worried look then closed his eyes and concentrated.

Still nothing happened, and Rodney almost gave up in dismay. Then the chair hummed with a very faint, almost inaudible droning sound, and a few moments later, the lights flickered a few times with a dull, weak glow.

"Yes! It works!" Rodney grinned, pumping his fist in the air. That was all he'd needed to see. He turned to Teyla showing her his scanner. "Look at this power fluctuation."

Teyla raised an eyebrow, glanced at the brightly glowing scanner and nodded uncertainly.

"Okay, wrong person to ask," Rodney said, still grinning, "but _trust_ me. There's a ZPM here and we just need to be able to access it, and I think the way to do that, is through that chair."

"Yes, but Rodney, if Major Lorne now possesses the strongest Ancient gene and yet he is still unable to fully activate the chair…" Teyla said uncertainly, showing that she still paid more attention to anything he said than most people did. "Will this not pose a problem?"

"Exactly!" Rodney said, pointing a finger at her in triumph.

"I… do not understand," Teyla said, shaking her head.

"I _never_ understand what he's talking about," Ronon said leaning towards her and lifting an eyebrow in commiseration.

"We need someone who _can_ activate it," Rodney explained, staring expectantly at his teammates and waiting for them to get a clue.

Lorne darted a glance at him, then surreptitiously climbed from the chair, which immediately shut down again.

Rodney glanced at the chair then waved his hand in an impatient, _come on_ gesture. "All right, I'll spell it out for all of you and use small words," he huffed. "Who's the _one_ guy we know who can operate a control chair like the thing was made for him?"

There was a long silence then Teyla spoke up. "Colonel Sheppard…?"

"Yes!" Rodney crowed. "Give the lady a prize!"

Teyla and Ronon stared at him with identical confounded expressions, and Lorne folded his arms over his chest and shook his head, but Rodney was too pleased with himself to care.

"Dr. McKay," Major Lorne said after a moment, speaking slowly, as though Rodney had taken sudden leave of his senses. "Colonel Sheppard is _gone."_

"Yes, yes, I realize that he's not standing right _here_ with us at present time," Rodney said, his voice dripping with condescension, "but he's not _dead._ He's merely a couple of gate trips away."

"What are you saying, Rodney?" Teyla asked, stepping closer to him, frowning with uncertainty. "We cannot possibly bring John here—"

"I'll have to talk to Elizabeth, of course," Rodney interrupted, waving her off. Bringing John back here, or more importantly, to Atlantis, was precisely what he was planning to do. It was exactly what he'd been hoping for, ever since he'd seen the rendering of that control chair and the medical lab.

Largely ignoring his teammates, Rodney began gathering as much information as he could. This time, he didn't chance trying to upload anything, instead relying on his memory and scribbled notes for later reference. He brushed off his team's questions and ignored their worried whispers. He didn't care. All that mattered was getting back to Atlantis with what information he could retain.

A short time later, they were back in the amphitheater room, replacing the trap door entrance to the facility again, leaving it loose in its casing for easy and hopefully, the very near future access.

The jumper trip back to Atlantis seemed longer than it could possibly be in reality. Rodney was positively vibrating with nervous anticipation of Elizabeth's reaction.

Unfortunately, once he'd told her of his plan to bring John back to the facility so that he could activate the chair, her reaction was not quite what he'd been expecting. In fact, adamant refusal was the _last_ thing he'd anticipated.

"Look will you just _consider_ the idea, Elizabeth?" Rodney pleaded for about the fifth time. They were sitting in Elizabeth's office with the door closed, and Rodney was getting damn near ready to start shouting at her.

"I can't believe you're even suggesting this, Rodney," Elizabeth said, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Why?" Rodney said, wide-eyed and baffled. "What's so difficult about this to understand? Don't you _want_ Sheppard back here?"

"Of _course_ I do, Rodney," Elizabeth said. The near anger suddenly left her green eyes, to be replaced with something close to grief. "God knows it nearly broke my heart to have to send John back…" she paused and shook her head. "I just can't believe that you'd want to use him like this."

Rodney's mouth dropped open in astonishment and outrage. _"Use_ him? I'm doing this _for_ him, dammit!" he protested. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Getting angry would get him nowhere with Elizabeth. "Okay… I know that… on _occasion,_ I may come across as callous and self-centered when it comes to getting what I want, but not when it comes to my friends. I would _never_ do that to him."

"Rodney…"

"Besides, who knows what can be accessed from that chair, Elizabeth. Technology that we've never seen before, medical advances that may even _help _him… After all, Carson was only scratching the surface of the databases _here."_

Elizabeth sighed and folded her hands on the desk in front of her. She seemed to consider her words carefully before she spoke again. "All right, Rodney, maybe your intentions are good, but have you taken even a moment to consider what this will do to John?

Rodney stared at her blankly. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

"Emotionally?" Elizabeth clarified.

"Are you kidding me? He'll _jump_ at the chance to come back here," Rodney said, shaking his head in disbelief. Why did women always turn everything into a freaking emote-fest?

"Rodney, like I said, I'm glad that you seem to gotten back to your old self, but don't let your enthusiasm cloud your judgement here. I don't think I need to remind you of what happened on Doranda. Your intentions were good then, too, remember, and on top of destroying an entire solar system, you nearly got yourself and John killed."

"Oh, so we're back to _that_ again," Rodney said, rolling his eyes and tearing a hand through his hair. "Thanks for rubbing that in my face, by the way. _Look,_ Elizabeth, I understand your concern, but we made sure that this facility is _absolutely_ safe and that nothing can happen to him there," he added, his voice trembling with frustration.

"There's no way you can made that kind of guarantee," Elizabeth stubbornly insisted. "And say I agree to this – how do you think John will feel, having to leave here all over again when you're finished with him and your experiment?" Elizabeth shot back.

"So who says he has to go back?" Rodney countered, thinking of the mingled fear and dread that John had been unable to hide at going back to Earth and then at his father's approach. Rodney had seen his friend face down slavering Wraith with less trepidation than that. There was no possible way in hell that Rodney was going to back down on this. He knew he couldn't set things right again, but he _could_ make things a little better for John in bringing him back here, where he belonged. "Why not keep him on here as a… a consultant, or something?"

"Rodney… you know that's just not realistic," Elizabeth said, shaking her head. "We are at war, not only with the Wraith, but the Replicators, and I cannot and _will_ not put John's life in jeopardy, not after what he's already been through."

"Elizabeth, every scientist in this city came here voluntarily," Rodney reminded her. "Even blind, Sheppard can handle himself better in a fight than say… Radek, or Miko. So he can't perform in a military capacity anymore, but here's the thing; have you or the SGC even _considered_ the fact that Sheppard is now the only one who can operate the control chair in _this_ city? He sure as hell doesn't have to see to be able to do _that."_

He paused to take a breath and looked at Elizabeth hopefully, but she turned her head away, rubbing her brow as though he were giving her a colossal headache.

"Look…" he added, "all I'm asking is that you at least give him the _opportunity_ to volunteer for a simple mission to a _safe,_ predominantly uninhabited planet. And let _him_ be the one to decide what he can and can't handle _emotionally,_ all right?" Rodney said snidely, knowing that his friend was one hell of a lot tougher than Elizabeth was giving him credit for. "Doesn't he deserve that after everything he's done for this expedition? After all the times he was willing to lay down his life to save this city and everyone in it?" Rodney knew that he was hitting low, but he didn't care.

"Rodney, listen to me," Elizabeth said firmly, setting her chin, but the over-brightness to her eyes was a dead giveaway that he was getting to her. "Even if I wanted to authorize this, which I don't – the military would never agree to it."

Rodney mulishly set his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest, considering her words. "Are you sure about that?" he said after a moment, tilting his head, his gaze steely. "Actually… I think the military would be _quite_ interested in that control chair and a pretty much guaranteed ZPM. And who knows? I _may_ have spotted some weapons in that control room. Maybe some drones, too. Maybe there's even a jumper or two hidden down there, and who can even begin to guess at what's in those medical databases? Not to mention, there's an entire city to explore with all kinds of Ancient devices just waiting to be activated…" He let his voice trail off and met Elizabeth's now furious gaze.

"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?" Elizabeth's voice grew cold.

"I'm not suggesting anything," Rodney said flatly. "I'm simply making an observation."

With that, he rose from his chair and turned toward the door.

"Rodney, we are _not_ finished here," Elizabeth warned.

"I think we are," Rodney said without looking at her. He pulled the door open and stepped outside.

"Don't you _dare_ go over my head on this, Rodney!" Elizabeth called after him.

Rodney raised his hands beside his head in an _I'm not listening_ gesture and strode back to his office.

* * *

--- _tbc_ ---


	6. Chapter 6 i

Happy, happy 2008! Hope you all had a wonderful New Year's and best wishes to everyone out there. Again, apologies for the long delays in between chapters - that pesky Christmas just gets in the way of everything, and I've never been very good at multi-tasking when it comes to writing - but! Hopefully, the final 4 - 5ish chapters of this story will follow much more quickly now that all that holiday stuff is out of the way. This is the first half of Chapter 6, the rest will follow within the next few days, and again, a big thank you to all of you who have been sticking with me through the story, and here we go:

* * *

John slumped back in his chair and irritably snapped off his CD player. The plot of the audio book he'd been trying to listen to was dull, yet incomprehensible, and it didn't help that the narrator had a flat, soporific voice that was lulling him into a near stupor. John never imaged that he would come to miss the simple pleasure of holding a book in his hands, of losing himself in the written words, rather than having them read to him like he was some preschooler. 

He missed so many seemingly insignificant things that he'd previously taken for granted. The unconscious freedom he used to have, to be able to do whatever he wanted, _whenever_ he wanted. The power to go out when he got restless. To be able to watch a movie or a football game, to look at the sky and instantly determine whether or not it was good flying weather. Even the simple act of meeting his reflection in the mirror when he tried to shave. He missed everything.

Though he was sitting in the shade on the back porch, the heat was still oppressive. Sweat prickled on his face and neck, but he didn't want to go back inside yet. Checking his watch, the computerized voice informed him that it was only 12:07 – and getting a talking watch was probably one of the stupider things he'd done since losing his sight because he kept checking the damn thing every five minutes. The days, like today, when he didn't have his sessions with Dana, were interminable. It seemed as though he were drifting more and more out of synch with real time, as though he were trapped in this dark timeless place while the world rushed by him at its usual pace.

He heard William's voice suddenly carrying loud and clear from an open window. Frowning, and pushing the headphones back from his ears, he listened a moment, wondering who his father was talking to.

"Yeah, well, I never understood why you'd want to live with all those limeys, anyway," William said, then chuckled at something. "So how's Tracey? The kids?" he asked, and John realized that his father was talking on the phone with Graham, John's older brother. Graham called every two weeks, almost as much a man of routine as their father, but John had spoken with his brother only a few times, for all of about two minutes of painfully stilted conversation. The trouble was, John had absolutely nothing going on now that was worth mentioning, and the last three years of his life were a highly classified void, so it was hard to find much to talk about.

Not that he and his brother had ever maintained much contact over the years. When he'd had a fixed address, John would receive the odd Christmas card with a stiff, studio portrait of Graham, his wife, Tracey, and their two kids, but that was about it. Now, they were living in London, where Graham was working as some sort of consultant – John wasn't entirely sure what exactly his brother did for a living – neither of them had ever made much effort to talk about their vastly different, respective career paths.

However, John _was_ fairly certain that Graham having opted not to follow in their father's military footsteps had been one of William's greatest disappointments. Graham was the perfect one, the obedient, favored son, and William no doubt thought that Graham would have been exemplary military material. The fact that John had joined the air force and became a 'hotshot flyboy,' as William put it, had never counted in his father's opinion of a serious military career.

Six years older, Graham had largely ignored him when they were kids, but John remembered one of the few times that Graham had let him tag along to his friend's place, and that day was one of those defining ones that stand out from all the other myriad childhood memories. Riding their bikes to the corner store, and in front of a group of the neighborhood kids, Graham had dared his scrawny, gawky looking friend to ride his bike down the steep, rocky ravine a half block away. Graham's friend had snorted at him, calling him too chicken-shit pussy to do it himself. John, though he'd only been nine years old then, had volunteered to do it instead, and without hesitation or waiting for Graham's response, took off for the ravine, eager to impress his big brother.

Once he'd hit the steep slope, John clearly remembered the sudden burst of terrifying, dizzying speed, and then an overwhelming sense of exhilaration, of pure, perfect freedom swept over him, like nothing he'd ever experienced before. It was that moment, that very first dangerous rush that enraptured him, that hooked him for good.

Then halfway down, he'd skidded on the loose gravel, the bike's wheels sliding out from under him and he'd crashed hard to the ground. He'd rolled, then slid for what seemed a terribly long time through gravel and dirt, scraping the hell out of his palms, forearms and knees until he finally reached the bottom. Graham had run after him, slipping and stumbling down the steep terrain, cursing and frantically calling his name all the way. He'd nearly carried John back up the slope, dragging his dusty bike behind them. John remembered being determined not to cry in front of all the other kids, even though he was bleeding from every limb and shaking with pain and a strange, almost numb dissociation that he later came to realize was spent adrenaline.

Once they reached the top of the ravine, Graham hadcarefully boosted John back on his bike and pushed him all the way home, berating him the entire time; _Are you crazy? What made you think you could actually pull that off, you little moron? You'd just better hope that dad isn't there when we get home, because he's absolutely gonna _freak_ when he sees you! _Softening his harsh words, he fretfully patted John's back every few minutes.

Unfortunately, William _had_ been home when they got there, and had blown into one of his rages when he caught sight of John's torn, bloodied clothing and his battered bike. Graham, too frightened of their father to make any attempt at covering up for his little brother, had flat-out confessed what happened, and even Graham's admission that he had made the dare, and John's bruises and scrapes hadn't deterred William from punishing John anyway. _Would you be stupid enough to jump off a cliff just because someone dared you to?_ John remembered William growling while reaching for his belt. Afterward, Graham had been subjected to a lengthy, stern lecture on responsibility that left him choking back tears.

Almost at once, Graham went back to ignoring him, and despite his brother's betrayal, for telling on him, John couldn't shake the terrible feeling that Graham was disgusted with him – not for attempting the dare, but for his failure to pull it off. Even more so, he wanted that rush again.

A few days later, he had ridden his bike back to that ravine alone. The first time he'd tried the slope, he'd lost control too quickly and bailed almost immediately, jumping off his bike before it picked up speed. The second time, he'd hit a large rock and nearly wound up going head over heels over the handlebars. But the third time, just as he began to pick up serious speed, he focused on nothing but the slope ahead of him, bracing his arms and standing up on the pedals. The wind whooshed in his ears, and he was going so fast that everything was a blur – he was as good as flying. Somehow, he'd made it all the way down with hardly a wobble. The rush was amazing, even more incredible than before, because this time, he'd pulled it off. He was fearless. He was Evel Knievel.

When he'd proudly told Graham that he'd gone back and successfully rode down that ravine more than once, Graham hadn't expressed much interest, barely pulling his eyes away from the model train he was working on. He'd even refused to go with John when he'd offered to prove it to him. Furious and biting back his disappointment, John was willing to bet anything that Graham couldn't have pulled it off any better. In another one of those defining moments, John hadsuddenly realized that maybe Graham really _was_ too afraid to ever try anything even as close to as wicked as that. Maybe he simply wanted to stay as far out of the line of fire as possible. In fact, the only risk John's boring, geeky brother ever took was potentially gluing his fingers together from all his stupid models.

That was when John stopped following his brother and went his own way. He kept trying different bike routes on his way to and from school, looking for new hills to master, setting up ramps with sheets of old plywood and jumping over them. And every time his dad was stationed somewhere else and they had to move yet again, the one consolation was that there were always new places to explore and new hills to conquer. It didn't even matter that most of the time there was no one around to see him do it – _he_ knew. The rush was all he needed, and he could never seem to get enough of it.

John supposed he could thank Graham for inadvertently pushing him in the right direction all those years ago – after all, John had only joined the air force so that he could fly, so that he could always have that rush right at his fingertips.

William let out a sudden and harsh bark of laughter, startling John from his thoughts and hurtling him back to his present surroundings, this stifling suburbia. The chair he was sitting on was stiff and uncomfortable, the desert sun blazed down on him, white hot, but the darkness never, ever let up. At all once, John remembered that he'd likely never experience that feeling again, that incredible, perfect rush. His stomach churned and his breath caught almost painfully in his lungs. Then he forced the thought from his mind, forced himself not to think of that anymore because it was too much, too difficult to accept. He also didn't allow himself to think of how Graham's careful, sedate life was going on without one single hitch – a successful, six-figure career, a devoted wife and kids – while John's own life had come to a terrible, screeching halt.

William kept talking, telling Graham how he'd started a new medication for his arthritis and that it seemed to be working a little better than the other garbage his doctor had put him on. He talked about his bowling game, how last week, he'd scored five strikes in a row – his best game yet. He told Graham that their Aunt Carolyn, the one who lived in San Diego, had found out that she had cancer and the prognosis wasn't good. That he was thinking of trading in the Explorer for one of those Hybrid models, but he wanted to do a little more research before deciding on one just yet.

"Yeah, I guess he's doing as well as can be expected," William then said after a long, quiet moment, and John tensed, knowing they were talking about him. "You know your brother, stubborn as ever. Has to do everything his way, or not at all. He's out back – you want to talk to him?" There was a pause. "All right. Next time then. Will talk to you soon," William said and hung up the phone.

John slouched lower in his chair, simultaneously relieved and oddly disappointed that Graham didn't want to at least say hello to him. And as he listened to his father banging around in the kitchen, John suddenly realized that William had never once mentioned his arthritis, his bowling game, that he wanted a new car, or that his sister was dying. William had never mentioned any of those things to him. In truth, his father had told Graham more in ten minutes, than he'd told John in over three months, and once again, John couldn't help feeling almost bitterly envious of his brother.

Tugging the headphones back over his ears, John turned his audio book on again. He cranked the volume, hoping to tune out, to not have to think anymore. The trouble was, the book was as esoteric as ever, and his thoughts kept wandering to dark places, seething with frustration and injustice. Relentless anger simmered just below the surface, and if he wasn't careful, if he didn't keep his emotions carefully in check, he feared that he would lose it completely and once that happened, there would be no turning back. He took slow, deep breaths and forced himself to listen to the droning voice. The flatly spoken words may as well have been in a foreign language from how little he comprehended of them, but at least they were starting to drown out his raging, tumultuous thoughts.

He didn't realize that he'd fallen into a light doze until someone grasped his shoulder, shaking him a little. He startled, bolting up his chair, the headphones sliding off his ears, the tinny, monotonous voice of the book's narrator still going on and on and on.

"John, I'm heading out now," William's contrasting, brusque voice said. "You want me to pick you up anything?"

John licked his dry lips and rubbed a hand over his forehead. The damned infernal heat had given him a headache and his throat felt scratchy, parched. "What time's it?" he asked after a moment, his head pounding, his thoughts muddled.

"Not quite 14:00," William said, so used to military time that he still used it without thinking.

_Shit, that's all?_ John thought with something close to despair. He sat up straighter and tore a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Where you going?"

"Got a few errands to run. Do you need anything?" his father repeated slowly. There was the jangle of keys – William impatiently shaking his keyring as he spoke.

John could think of a lot of things that he needed right now, but they weren't anything that could be bought from a store. "No… I'm fine," he replied after a moment, massaging his temple and trying to clear his aching head.

"All right," William said. "I'll be back before dinner. And you should get out of this heat already – go inside before you give yourself a damned heat stroke."

With that, the sliding door was pulled shut with a bang. "Yeah, thanks, dad – I'll do that," John said to the closed door, raising his hand in a mock wave. He slumped back in his chair, disappointment washing over him again. Not for the first time, he wondered why William never offered to take him along anywhere, and there was no way in hell that John was simply going to invite himself along. He supposed that his dad just didn't want the hassle of leading him around and making sure he didn't run into things or trip over anything, but still, it would have been nice to get out for a little while.

William didn't return until almost 18:00. By that time, John had already ridden his skateboard up and down the driveway and along the sidewalk flanking the house so many times that he nearly made himself dizzy, and the neighbors probably thought that he was completely insane. After that, he'd gone back inside and went through a succession of stretching exercises that Teyla had shown him, then a routine of sit-ups and pushups until his strength gave out and he was gasping for breath. But none of that was enough to counteract the sense of futility and endless, endless frustration. All it did was make the time go by a little faster.

William had brought back a pizza for dinner, but John had little appetite and even less inclination for any attempts at conversation. Even still, he'd eaten a few slices out of politeness, pretended to listen to the local news with his father, and the evening passed as slowly and infernally as the day.

Sometime after midnight, long after William had gone to bed, John sat in front of the television set in his room. He was listening to some old Led Zeppelin documentary on TV, sipping straight from a tall bottle of Scotch that Dana had helped him buy – he'd told her that it was a present for William. Even though he'd bought the bottle less than a week ago, and even though he'd carefully restricted himself to drinking only at night, it was already nearly empty, and it seemed to be the only way he could fall asleep at night now.

It took a while, but finally, his head started buzzing a little, his eyelids and limbs became heavy, listless, and he drifted off to 'Stairway to Heaven,' the lyrics following him into sleep… _There's a feeling I get when I look to the west, and my spirit is crying for leaving… _

…and then he was flying, flying over icecaps, glaciers, snow, snow and more snow, a never-ending blanket of white. The controls sure in his hands, the chopper glided smoothly and effortlessly through a sky so blue, so perfect it didn't seem real. In the freezing air, his breath misted around him, but he didn't want to go back yet. He didn't want to ever go back, but he knew he couldn't stay out here forever. 

He woke with a sudden start to the sound of thumping bass drums and screeching guitars. It took a moment to orient himself, to figure out where he was. The documentary was over, and the music had switched to some metal band he didn't recognize. His muscles ached, he still had the bottle clasped loosely in his hand and his head was still buzzing a little, but he knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. He always dreamed of the Antarctica whenever he was feeling out of sorts, and it seemed strange how in his dreams, there was never anything wrong with his eyes. In his dreams, he could see everything so clearly, so vividly, but now that he was wide awake and surrounded by blackness again, the dazzling blue and white Antarctic landscape still playing out in his memory was an almost taunting cruelty. Tears burned behind his eyes and despair flooded him.

He pulled himself from the armchair, his T-shirt sticking to his back, his hair damp and sweaty. William never turned the air-conditioning high enough, and the air was stifling. John forced back the tears that wanted to come and familiar anger knotted the pit of his stomach.

He wished that Teyla or Ronon were around so they could spar for a while. So that he could fight and hit and yell his lungs out. He wished he could run until his legs buckled with exhaustion and he couldn't catch his breath and the blood roared in his ears, drowning out everything else. Hell, he'd even settle for taking a long walk around the neighborhood, but he couldn't even do that – not without getting hopelessly disoriented the second he crossed the street. He couldn't do a damn thing on his own, and he wanted to scream with fury. He wanted to weep for everything he'd lost.

Instead, he found his shoes, slipped them on, stumbled to the door and made his way to the kitchen and outside onto the back patio. He pulled the door shut behind him a little louder than intended and cursed under his breath. The night air was even hotter than it was inside, and once again, he wished for Atlantea's cool, salty air with an almost physical yearning.

The backyard was so sparsely landscaped that he could easily walk around without too many obstacles, and he shuffled onto the grass. He paced back and forth like some caged animal, retracing the same steps over and over again. He took a few deep breaths. He tried to settle his raging thoughts, he tried to calm down. He tried to follow his old mantra, to take things one breath at a time, but it wasn't working anymore.

He startled a little when he heard the sliding door opening again.

"What are you doing, John?" William's voice hissed in a loud whisper. That was another thing that hadn't changed about William – he'd always been a light sleeper, making sneaking in and out almost impossible when John was a kid, and God knows he'd tried and been busted many times.

John kept up his restless pacing. "Couldn't sleep," he said by way of explanation, unwilling to admit the real reason why he'd come out here, which he wasn't even all that sure of himself.

"Well, if you'd stop nodding off so much during the day…" William said, letting his voice trail off. "You need some sort of a routine. Get up the same time every morning, try to keep yourself busy."

John snorted at that. "Doing what?" he countered, bitterness heavy in his voice. William didn't answer him, probably realizing the stupidity of what he'd just said. "I don't think I'll ever get used to the heat here. Makes it hard to sleep," John finally said after a long moment, but it was only to break the heavy silence hanging between him and his father, like something tangible. He was getting sick of it.

"Yeah, it takes some getting used to, all right," William agreed.

John continued his steady pacing, his body longing to break free, to flee this so-called life. His father kept the lawn so short that it felt more like he was walking on Astroturf, and the dry patches crunched a little as he stepped on them, the way snow did under your boots. He thought of the Antarctica again and how the air was so cold that it would steal your breath when you stepped outside and freeze your skin on contact. In this relentless summer heat, it was hard to remember that kind of cold now. Like he had only imagined it.

"Do you know that the Antarctica technically qualifies as a desert, too?" he said, endlessly retracing his steps in the grass, restless, restless, he couldn't seem to stop moving. "The average annual precipitation is about two inches less than the Sahara. It never rains though. It's all snow. Snow that never completely melts. It just keeps building up every year, for thousands of years. Some of that ice is older than anything in the world."

"That so?" William said, then cleared his throat. "Must have been an interesting place."

John nodded. "It was beautiful. I used to love to fly over the glaciers. You wouldn't believe the size of some of them. They seemed to go on forever."

"John, it's late. You should get back to bed now – try to at least get _some_ sleep," William said, starting to sound worried now.

John shook his head. "I'm not tired. I just… I need to get some air."

William didn't say anything, and he didn't come any closer either, as though he were afraid of his own son, and John snickered a little at the thought. At the strange reversal.

"Are you all right, Johnny?" William finally asked, but the hesitant, almost exasperated note to his voice told John that his father didn't really want to hear the answer. Not the true one anyway.

"Yeah, I'm fine," John answered, even though he wasn't anywhere close to fine and they both knew it. "I'm just… not tired."

"All right... try not to stay up too much longer though," William said, still hesitant.

John then heard the sliding door pulling shut, and with an inexplicable pang of fear, he didn't want to be left alone anymore. "Dad…?"

"What is it, John?" William said, his voice sounding farther away, probably halfway in the house already.

"I've read good things about the Camry Hybrids. They're not too expensive and they're pretty sharp looking, too," John said quietly, unconsciously walking in a slow circle. There was another long silence and he wondered if William was angry that his conversation had been overhead. Maybe he had even gone back inside already.

"Yeah, I read that somewhere, too," William finally answered, nearly startling him. "Maybe I'll take one for a test drive one of these days. No big rush for it, really – was just an idea."

"Okay," John said, nodding. "I… I'm sorry about Aunt Carolyn. I always thought she was nice."

There was another long pause. "Didn't think you remembered her."

John nodded again. "She took me and Graham to the zoo a couple of times when we were visiting her."

William cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's a damn shame, but I guess we all gotta go sometime. It's very late, John. Don't stay out here too long, all right?"

John stopped in his tracks and furiously clenched his fists. He bit back the urge to shout at his father. He wanted to remind him that there was nothing wrong with his ears, or with his mind, so why the hell wouldn't William fucking _talk_ to him? Why the hell couldn't he stand being around his own son? Instead, John clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth hurt. He took a deep breath and ducked his head a little so that his father couldn't see his face.

"Goodnight, dad," he said through gritted teeth, through the anger and hurt.

"'Night," William echoed and closed the door with a final sounding thump.

John stood still and alone in the dark. For once, he couldn't hear any traffic, and he wondered just how late it was. There were crickets chirping somewhere, and he'd always thought that was the loneliest sound in the world. Something in his chest hurt, clenched so tight that it was hard to breathe, as though he were slowly, slowly drowning. It was like all the air, along with the colors – the green of William's brutally manicured lawn, the white of the moon and the specks of stars somewhere above him – had been pulled into some vacuum, some fathomless black hole, leaving nothing but suffocating darkness.

He began to pace again, taking in shallow, panicky sounding breaths and losing all sense of direction. When his shoulder banged against something hard, he stopped and felt in front of him. His fingers brushed the rough wood siding of the detached garage. He held still a moment, laying his hands flat on the wood, and then without thinking, without hesitation, he clenched his right hand into a fist, pulled back and punched the wall as hard as he could. An explosion of pain shot all the way up to his shoulder, and he choked back a yelp. Before the pain could fully take hold, he pounded the wall again, and this time, he barely managed to stifle his helpless cry.

He staggered back a few steps, clutching his wounded hand to his chest. His legs folded under him, and he sat down hard in the grass, rocking himself a little against the pain. Tears ran down his face and he didn't even try to stop them. With his rapidly swelling hand screaming, throbbing in time with his heartbeat and warm blood trickling down his wrist, it was easy to let go, to convince himself that it was the physical pain that finally unraveled him.

* * *

---tbc---


	7. Chapter 6 ii

Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and these lovely characters belong to their respective owners, etc.

Another _huge, _incredibly grateful thank you to my dear, wonderful friend and amazing beta, for continually taking time out of her busy day to help me with this story and for pushing me to try _just_ a little bit harder to find that elusive word, to somehow pull this all together.

And ah, yes, I left poor John in a rough state in the first half of this chapter, didn't I? However, fear not, there _is_ a light at the end of the tunnel... and here we go:

* * *

John woke the next morning to the sound of the neighbor's dog barking as usual, his father banging around somewhere in the house, and his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He turned over and groaned at the heightened pain in his head, aching from the lack of sleep and too much alcohol. He took a moment to try to wake up a little before sitting up, and when he pressed his hand down on the mattress, he hissed in pain, suddenly remembering what he had done the night before. He tried to flex his fingers, finding them swollen and stiff and the webbing between them crusted with dried blood.

Rubbing his eyes, which felt as puffy and sore as his hand, John pulled himself from bed with a muttered curse and had to catch hold of the dresser when a wave of nauseating dizziness washed over him. He had only a vague, dreamlike recollection of dragging himself back inside the night before, downing what was left of the scotch and finally dropping into an exhausted sleep. He still felt battered and raw, his nerve endings frayed.

He checked his watch, and as restless as he'd been over the endless weekend, he now found himself dreading Dana's arrival in a little over an hour. He wasn't up to her perpetual encouraging cheeriness, to yet another lesson on how to cope with his pathetic, useless existence. He didn't want to do any of this anymore. In truth, all he wanted to do was get back into bed, curl up and pull the covers over his head. But he was afraid that if he gave in to that temptation, he'd have a hard time convincing himself to get up again.

Stumbling to the bathroom, he reached inside the shower stall, turned the water as cold as he could tolerate and stepped inside. He let the icy water beat down on him until he was shivering with cold and his hand was aching like a son of a bitch. He dried off in his father's bathroom, using towels his father had bought, and carefully felt his way back to his father's guestroom. Getting dressed, his skin prickling with gooseflesh, he for once welcomed the too warm air in his father's house. John paused with his shirt half on and half off. Everything around him was his father's, not his. And that was half the problem, wasn't it? He stared sightlessly before him, this new realization burning in his head. Then, with grim resolution, he pulled his shirt on, fastened the buttons, and it was time to get on with it. To get a handle on things. All at once, he found himself not only looking forward to Dana's arrival; he was damned impatient for it.

As he made his way down the long hallway to the kitchen, John ran his fingers along the wall for guidance, his hand throbbing relentlessly with every step. _What a stupid thing to do,_ he thought, suddenly furious with himself. His hands were his guide, his only way to sort out the world now and he'd nearly doubly handicapped himself. He didn't hear any noises coming from the kitchen. Maybe, with any luck, William had gone outside and he might be able to drink his coffee and clear his head in peace.

As soon as John stepped in the kitchen, he heard the newspaper rattle and William let out a stunned curse. There was the scrape against wood as he pushed back his chair. _"Christ,_ John, what the hell did you do to yourself?"

John froze, startled, then tried to shrug off his father's concern. "Tripped over something last night," he said as casually as he could. With William hovering somewhere behind him, John made his way to the countertop, feeling for the coffeepot that was always full and ready for him in the mornings. He carefully poured himself a cup and made his way to the table. William gave him a moment to sit down and then grabbed hold of John's wrist, startling him again.

"Looks more like you tried to put your fist through a wall," William said, not fooled a bit, his grip firm on John's forearm. John held still as his father carefully turned his hand over, inspecting the damage. "Is there any drywall I need to be patching up?" William added dryly.

"Don't worry, your walls are safe," John said, scowling and trying not to flinch as William gently palpated his fingers.

"Why didn't you call me?" William said, irritated. "You may need to get this x-rayed, dammit."

"It's fine – it's just bruised," John said, all too familiar with what a busted hand really felt like, but he wondered just how bad it actually looked. He resisted the urge to pull away, even though he was uncomfortable under his father's invisible scrutiny.

"Stay put, and I'll be back in minute," William ordered, releasing his grip on him, apparently satisfied that nothing was, in fact, broken.

"Dad, I'm _fine,"_ John protested, but William ignored him. He heard his father's footsteps moving away and then some clattering sounds. John sighed, tore his good hand through his damp hair and took a few sips from his coffee.

Then his father was back, dragging another chair over to sit beside him. "Give me your hand," William said. John slouched back, briefly considered refusing, then with a sigh, gave in and held his hand out.

"Looks like you just sprained it, busted up your knuckles pretty good. Can't believe you actually went to bed like this," William grumbled, indistinct noises clattering around him. Then there was the distinctive smell of iodine, followed by a cool swipe over his split knuckles. John couldn't help a wince at the resulting sting of the antiseptic. A soft gauze pad was placed over his knuckles and then taped in place.

"Don't know how many times your mother or I patched you up after some spill, or stupid stunt you'd pulled when you were a kid," William muttered as he wrapped a tensor bandage around John's hand and securing it to his wrist. "Next time you decide to hurt yourself, you call me, got it? I don't care how late it is."

John pulled back his hand, holding it up against his chest. He experimentally flexed his fingers against the constraints of the bandage and his knuckles stung again in protest. He wanted to point out William's reluctance to talk the night before, how he couldn't seem to get away quick enough, but there wasn't any point in bringing that up now.

"Actually, you won't have to worry about that anymore," he said instead. In light of his father's sudden need to fuss over him, he almost wanted to back down, to change his mind, but there was no sense in delaying this. Things would only escalate again in no time, and so he sucked it up, took a deep breath and blurted out the words. "I've decided to get an apartment in town. Once Dana gets here, I'm going to ask her to help me look at some places today."

There was a long silence, and John could all but feel his father's glower fixed upon him.

"When did you decide this?" William asked, his voice flat, revealing nothing.

"I… it doesn't matter," John said, unwilling to admit that the idea had only just come to him as he was getting dressed. All he knew was that he couldn't face another week like the last one. "I just think it would be better for both of us—"

"This place not good enough for you?" William growled, but this time, he hadn't been able to hide the hurt tone to his voice.

"Dad… come on," John said softly, already trying to make peace, just like he'd always done when faced with William's volatile temper. "That's not what this is about."

"What _is_ it about then?" William said, his voice low and steely now. John remembered that tone from when he was a kid. The one that made his mother even quieter and more fearful, that usually had Graham scurrying for cover and John's stomach churning with dread.

"I appreciate you helping me out, dad, but it's just time for me to get out of your hair," John said, trying to sound casual, as though this wasn't really a big deal.

"And how the hell do you think you're gonna manage on your own?" William said, switching to an almost condescending tone.

"I'm pretty much on my own as it is now, so what difference does it make?" John shot back without thinking.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" William demanded.

"What do you _think_ it means?" John said, sitting up straighter in his chair. In truth, he _had_ no idea how he was going to manage by himself. He hadn't even fully thought this through, but now that he'd put the idea out there, there was no backing down. "I'm not _stupid,_ dad, and even fucking blind, I can see that you don't really want me here."

"If I didn't want you here, I wouldn't have offered, now would I?" William nearly shouted at him.

"You _offered_ because you felt sorry for me," John corrected, "because you felt that it was your moral obligation."

"Damn right, it's my obligation," William said, indignant. "You're my son. Of course I took you in when you needed a place to stay, but now that's not good enough?"

"No, it's _not_ good enough," John said, dismayed to find that his stomach had started churning, as though he were that scared little kid again instead of a forty-year-old soldier who had faced down the kinds of things his father couldn't possibly imagine. "You're never here, it's like you… you can't stand being around me. You barely talk to me when you _are_ here, and I know you're fully capable of carrying on a conversation – you never seem to have any trouble talking to Graham."

_"That's_ what this is about?" William said, sounding both pissed and incredulous, "your brother?"

John shook his head and took a deep breath. "This has nothing to do with Graham, dad. This is about you and me, and how _nothing_ ever changes," he said, his heart pounding. "I thought… hoped that maybe things would be different between us this time, but you haven't changed at all, and I can't… I can't do this anymore."

"What the hell do you want from me, John?" William said, his chair clattering as he stood up again. "I don't see or hear from you in years, and then when I do—" William abruptly cut off what he had been about to say. "Tell me something – if you hadn't gotten injured like this, would you have ever _thought_ to pick up a phone and give your old man a call, or would you have just shown up someday at my funeral, like you did with your mother?"

_"Don't_ bring mom into this," John snarled. His temper rose up, and he gratefully let it come. "Mom didn't tell me or Graham that she was sick until it was almost too late, but I was _there_ for her. I was _always_ there for her! And yeah, I thought about calling you a few times, but you know what? There didn't seem to be any point."

"That's what I figured," William said almost smugly. "And that's the difference between you and Graham. Your brother never turned his back on his family the way you did."

"Turn my back…?" John echoed incredulously, cold anger pouring over him. "Do you even _remember_ mom's funeral?" He'd never had any intention of bringing this up, but now that they'd started this, there was no way in hell he was backing down, and he didn't care what happened afterward.

As reticent as ever, Molly Sheppard had ignored all the warning symptoms until she'd finally collapsed. Even then, she kept the true nature of her illness from her sons until the cancer became too debilitating to hide. By the time William had finally called to let John know, his mom was already dying and in the hospital. John had taken compassionate leave from his military training and had arrived at his parents' house only a little over a week before his mother's death. When he got to the hospital, he'd been shocked at her wasted appearance. Only five months before, and in a rare display of independence, Molly had flown out to San Antonio by herself to visit him, and she'd seemed fine. John had shown her around what he could of the base, driven her to all the tourist traps that San Antonio had to offer, treated her to a few nice dinners, and she'd taken it all in, relishing every moment with uncharacteristic, unabashed pleasure. And looking at her wasted, waxen form on the hospital bed, John understood that she had probably suspected that she was dying back then, that the time they'd spent together was far more precious than he'd realized.

They'd only had a few days together where she was still lucid enough to talk with him. For hours at a time, sitting on the hard, uncomfortable plastic hospital chairs, John had told her stupid jokes and embarrassing stories about the guys in his squadron, making her smile and laugh. When she became too tired to talk, he had read to her the mystery novel she'd been unable to finish on her own, while William paced around the room, restless and snappish with grief and fear. Graham had perched in a corner of the room, pouring over some technical manual, or other, glancing up from time to time at his mother.

When Molly finally died, John had been the only one in the hospital room with her. For three endless, exhausting days, she had lingered in a deep medication-induced sleep. John had been holding her hand, worn-out and half-asleep himself, watching the shallow rise and fall of her breaths, unconsciously matching them until he nearly made himself dizzy. And then, without any of the fuss or dramatics he'd feared, her breath had caught, let out and stayed still. By the time William and Graham had come back with cups of industrial strength coffee for each of them, she was gone, as quietly as she'd lived her life.

For once, John had been grateful for Graham's no-nonsense pragmatism when his brother had stepped in and taken care of the funeral arrangements. After the short service, most of the guests had duly come to the small reception at his parents' house. John had kept to himself, half-listening as William, nursing glass after glass of whiskey, chatted with some of his old military buddies and their wives. One of the women commented that Molly had always decorated her home so beautifully, although, she'd said with a smile, it must have become second nature to Molly after all the times they'd had to move.

John nearly snorted at that. He remembered how his mom had hated every single move, hated having to reorient herself to new surroundings, to pretend to be friends with a long succession of military wives she'd never see again in six months' time. When they were stationed in Heidelberg, she hadn't left the house for almost two weeks, overwhelmed by the language barrier and maze of narrow, hectic streets in the beautiful city. John had quickly learned a few German phrases and his way around their neighborhood, and on his bike, he'd picked up whatever groceries and personal items she'd needed, and William had never found out about it.

Slowly wandering around Molly's tastefully decorated living room, John paused at the bookshelf laden with all the knickknacks and small treasures she had collected over the years and throughout the many cities and countries they'd lived in. Every time they'd moved, she had carefully set each of them up on this same bookshelf as soon as the furniture was set in place – her favorite possessions a refuge against a continual tide of change.

As the terrible afternoon wore on, and William's glass was refilled with alarming frequency, more and more people left until there were only a couple of old aunts that John scarcely recognized and a few of William's closest friends standing around the living room. John choked back his growing anger as William spun stories of his and Molly's fictional happy life, how she'd loved to travel, how she'd been a real trouper, weathering all the change in their lives with aplomb. John should have been used to his father's constant revisions of the truth, but he couldn't stand it anymore. Moving out of earshot, John situated himself against the wall near Molly's shelf. He'd picked up a delicate porcelain figurine of a dancer and was slowly turning it over in his hands when he noticed William suddenly standing beside him.

"That one was her favorite, wasn't it?" William said, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. "She was damn near heartbroken when it got busted that one move. Graham fixed it pretty good though."

John ran his thumbnail over the visible cracks along the figure's neck and clasped, upraised arms. "That's not how it got broken, and you know it," he said quietly.

"Yes, it was," William said, nodding, "don't know why she always dragged these things along with her everywhere. They were bound to get broken soon enough."

"Especially when they get thrown against a wall, right, dad?" John said without looking at his father. "There was another one of these figures just like it – a matching set. But you threw that one a little too hard, didn't you? There were far too many pieces to put back together, even though Graham tried."

William just looked at him. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

John shook his head and turned the figure over and over in his hand. William may had conveniently forgotten that day, but John remembered how he and Graham had carefully picked up the shattered pieces from the floor after William had stormed out, Graham reassuring their weeping mother that he could fix it, no problem.

"You should have called me and Graham sooner and let us know that she was sick," John said. "We had a right to know."

"That was your mother's decision. She didn't want to worry you boys, but if you'd bothered to come to visit more often, maybe you would have figured it out for yourself," William snapped. "Funny how you found the time to finally show up now, to come to her funeral, huh?" he added, his words slurring together a little. "You were always her favorite, you know. Could never do anything wrong in her eyes. She always made excuses for you, every time you screwed up she protected you, and what thanks did she get for it, huh? When you cancelled coming to her birthday party, she was already so sick that she could hardly get out of bed, and don't think your not showing up didn't break her heart a little on top of it. She went downhill after that, and you can't make up for something like that."

John stared at his father with stunned hurt. "What are you saying, dad? That this is somehow _my_ fault?" he asked, his voice trembling, his eyes blurring with tears. Despite his protest, his stomach churned with terrible remorse. If he had only known, he would have come. He would have. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe if you hadn't made her so damned miserable all her life, she might have cared enough to go to a doctor before it was too late? That maybe she wouldn't have even gotten sick in the first place?" he shot back without thinking, a haze of angry tears clouding his vision.

He'd regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. He hadn't meant it, and even as he began to apologize, William, without hesitation, struck him full in the face, so hard that the force of the blow caused John to stumble into the shelf. His mother's knickknacks wobbled, some of them toppled over. The stunned silence that followed was so complete that John had been momentarily unable to move. He stood with his hand pressed tight to his injured cheek, the eyes of relatives and old family friends he no longer recognized fixed on him in mingled sympathy and horror.

Graham, who had been seeing to the older relatives, had stared wide-eyed back and forth between his father and brother, then rushed over to John, carefully steering him away from the wobbling shelf and all those prying eyes.

"What happened?" Graham said, letting go of John to move over to their father. William's features were blazing, contorted with rage, tears running down his face. He ignored his older son; his pale eyes fixed on John.

Finally, John dared to look into William's furious eyes.

"Get the hell out of my house," his father snarled at him.

John forced himself to hold his father's gaze for an endless moment, then he turned and was careful to walk, not run, out the door. He was relieved that he managed to make it outside without bursting into tears.

That he saved for when he reached the small playground a half a block from his parents' house. It was thankfully empty, and dazed and numb, he sank onto a bench beneath a tall maple. When he realized that he still had his mother's dancing figurine clenched in his fist, John buried his face in his hands and wept. He wept for the loss of his mother who he knew had understood the real reason behind her son's excuses for not coming home to visit her more often. He wept for all the times she'd protected him from his father, for all the times he'd had to protect _her,_ for all the times he'd avoided seeing her because then he would have had to see _him,_ too. And even after her death, she was still caught in the middle.

And more so, he wept for himself because even at twenty-four years old, by all rights a grown man, his father's cruel disapproval and rejection still hurt like hell.

Sitting in his father's kitchen, John clenched the fingers of his damaged hand, welcoming the sharp pain in his knuckles. "You told me to get out of your house, dad, and I did."

"I never told you not to come back," William immediately shot back.

"You didn't _have_ to. You made it pretty damn clear that you didn't want to have anything more to do with me. Once mom was gone, you just didn't have to pretend anymore."

After he'd pulled himself together that terrible day, over 15 years ago now, John had walked into town, some three miles in his black suit and uncomfortable dress shoes, and had wandered around the small downtown core for hours. Then he'd found a bar and nursed a few drinks until it grew dark outside. He finally returned to the house after 10pm. Graham's car was gone from the drive, and all the lights save the one in the entranceway had been left on. John had crept upstairs, packed his one bag and had taken a cab to the airport. He'd spent the night curled up on a bench because the earliest flight he could get didn't leave until 6:30am.

And that day had been the last time he and William had laid eyes on each other, until the day that John had arrived here in Reno, broken and so lost that he'd swallowed all his pride and had accepted his father's peace offering and a place to stay.

"You looked me up maybe _once,_ the whole time I was in training," John reminded his father, "and even then, you didn't bother to show up for my graduation. And while I was at McMurdo, and they sure as hell have phones there, you never called me either, so don't you talk to _me_ about turning my back."

"Christ, John... why are you bringing all this up now?"

"Because we've _never_ talked about this!" John shouted, getting to his feet. "We never talk about _anything!"_

"There's nothing to talk about! You always make out like you had it so rough. You and your mother, always banding together, like I was the goddamned enemy, or something."

"Sometimes you were, dad," John said through gritted teeth.

"That's bullshit, and you know it," William snarled.

"Oh, that's right," John said snidely. "You've _always_ done that, haven't you? You've always rewritten everything so that you were right and everyone else was wrong. You never bullied mom – she just needed 'toughening up,' didn't she? And you only hit me when I had it coming, right?"

"What went on between your mother and I is none of your damn business." William countered. "Graham always did as he was told and stayed out of trouble, but you were always challenging me, doing exactly what you weren't supposed to be doing behind my back."

"Graham spent half his life hiding in his room or avoiding home because he was always so fucking terrified of you!" John shouted. "Funny, how as soon as he was old enough to get out of the house, he took off as _far_ as he could, too, but you don't seem to have a problem with Graham the way you do with me."

"That's enough, John! Just knock it off right now, or—"

"Or what? You'll 'straighten me out?'" John sneered, quoting what William always said before he started hitting. He knew he was pushing all of William's buttons and it felt good.

"I only came down hard on you to keep you in line," William snarled. "God only knows what would have become of you if I hadn't."

"Yeah, and _look_ at what's become of me." John waved a hand in front of his face, his useless, sightless eyes.

"At least you're alive," William said, "it could have been a lot worse."

"What's worse than _this?" _John countered."Do you know that every single day, when I wake up in the morning, I wish that I had been standing just a little closer to that blast and that it would have taken off my damn head!"

"Don't you say that, John," William growled. "I don't ever want to hear you say that again. You just be damned grateful that you're alive!"

"What _for!_" John shouted. "What's there to be fucking grateful for? _This?_ Being put out to pasture like some… some lame horse that no one has the sense to put out of its misery? At least if I'd died in the line of duty, you would have a nice flag to put in your trunk of military gear and you could brag to all your buddies at the Legion that your son died serving his country-"

And then William _did_ hit him, only a light slap on the cheek, but even still, John froze, shocked. He instinctively raised his hands in front of him. William grasped John's upper arms tightly and gave him a firm shake.

"Don't you _ever_ say that again!" William shouted in his face. "Do you hear me?"

"Why not?" John yanked free and stumbled backwards, his back hitting the wall. "It would be one hell of a lot easier than having to avoid me all day, every fucking day, and being embarrassed to be seen with me!"

"That's not true—"

"Yes, it _is! _Do I look that bad? I can't really tell for myself, so be honest, dad, I can take it. Or is it just that you don't want anyone to know that your son turned out to be the failure you'd always expected him to be? Is that it? You always said that I'd amount to nothing, so here I am, dad," John said, a snide laugh escaping him. "I've got nothing. I _am_ nothing! You were right. Are you happy now?"

"Christ, Johnny…" William breathed out, his voice suddenly shaky. "You think I _wanted_ something like this to happen to you? Is that what you think—" William's breath hitched, stealing his voice, and then John heard a jumble footsteps as his father rushed away from him.

John heard the front door open and then slam shut. He heard the garage door opening, a loud roar of a car engine, which quickly died away, then silence. He stood alone in the kitchen, his heart pounding, furious tears running down his face, and God, he was so sick of this.

A few minutes later, he heard the door opening again, then nothing.

"Dad?" he called out hesitantly.

"John, it's Dana… I'm sorry, but the door was unlocked…"

"Oh..." he breathed out, and quickly swiped his hands over his face. "I guess it's that time already, huh?"

"No, I'm actually a little early. Traffic was light for once," Dana said, her voice coming a little closer. "If this is a bad time…"

"No… I… it… it doesn't matter." John shook his head, too wrung out to do anything, and he just stood there with his back pressed against the kitchen wall.

"Well, I'd ask you how your day was going but…" Dana said after a moment, stepping close beside him.

He snorted at that. "So I guess you… heard that?"

"Well… some of it," Dana admitted apologetically. "Your dad peeled out of here like some drunken teenager. I don't think he even saw me."

"I guess he's pretty pissed off," John said, his voice shaking. He wrapped his arms over his chest.

"Are you okay?" Dana said, lightly touching his shoulder.

"Yeah," he said automatically, and realized that he was trembling from head to foot. He shook his head and laughed a little. "No."

He reached in front of him, trying to find his chair, but it was further away than he'd estimated and he nearly stumbled. Dana gently steered him in the right direction, and he sat down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, dropping his head.

Dana put her hand on his shoulder. She could probably feel how badly he was shaking, but he didn't pull away. Then Dana wrapped her arms around him, gently rubbing his back and he let her, accepting the comfort for as long as it was offered. When she pulled away, far too soon, she lightly rubbed his arms as though he were shaking from cold, not tension.

"Family, huh?" Dana said in a colossal understatement.

"Family," he agreed with a soft laugh and swiped a hand over his eyes. "Now I remember why I swore off the whole thing. This is actually nothing new with us," he added. "It's not really a big deal."

"Yes, it _is_ a big deal," Dana corrected, still rubbing his arms, then suddenly stopped. "What happened to your hand?"

John raised it to show off his wound. "Had another little argument with a wall," he said with a shrug. "The wall won."

"John, we've talked about this before, and I want you to hear me out now, okay?" Dana said, taking hold of his good hand. "You need a strong support system to help you cope with all of this, and I don't think you're getting that here, and I can only do so much. I want you to think about joining Darren's support group – they're all young guys who I think you'd really be able to relate to. You need to talk to someone who understands what you're going through."

John was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to relate to anyone outside the Pegasus galaxy anymore, but of course, he couldn't tell Dana that. "Didn't I mention something about not wanting to sit around with a bunch of guys whining about how crappy their lives are, the last time you brought that up?" he reminded her instead, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to soften his words. "Actually… there is something else that you _can_ help me with. I need to get an apartment today. I don't care where it is, or what it looks like, but I can't stay here anymore."

"John, I know you're upset but—"

"No, I've given this some thought, and I want to do this."

"I can't advise that, John," Dana said firmly. "You are _not_ ready to live on your own yet."

"So I'll hire a maid," he shot back a little desperately. "I've been thinking about getting one of those guide dogs, too."

"Okay, _that _we can talk about later, and I'll give you some numbers to call. As for the apartment, I want you to think about that a little more."

He shook his head stubbornly. "No. I've made up my mind. If you won't help me, I'll find some other way."

"John, listen to me - please don't make this kind of decision when you're this upset, all right?" Dana told him. "You probably don't want to hear this right now, but I do know that your dad cares about you very much. I've seen the way he looks at you sometimes, like his heart is broken, and he doesn't know what to do about it."

_"My_ dad?" John scoffed. "I'm having a little trouble picturing that. In fact, I don't think he even _has_ a heart," he added, only half-joking.

"Yeah, believe it, bud," Dana said, "both of you, the last of the tough guys, huh?"

"You got it," John agreed, and swiped a hand over his still watering eyes.

"No parent wants to see their kid in pain, John, and your dad has gotta be hurting over this, too," Dana said, squeezing his good hand a little tighter.

"We just… never got along. Me and him," John admitted quietly, ducking his head to hide his swollen, probably bloodshot eyes. "Even when I was a kid. I don't know why I expected it to be any different now."

Dana didn't say anything to that and enfolded him in another embrace. "You hang in there, okay?" she said against his neck. "Things will get better soon."

He nodded, even though he didn't believe that for a second. He pulled back, ashamed at being caught so off-guard, so messed up.

"What do you say we take the day off?" Dana said suddenly.

"What?" John shook his head, confused. "You mean… you're gonna leave now?"

"No, silly," Dana said, lightly slapping at his arm. "I mean, let's play hooky. Do something fun and stupid with absolutely no learning value whatsoever."

John played with the bandage on his hand, mulling it over. "I'd rather go check out apartments," he said stubbornly.

"Nope, that doesn't count as fun and stupid, so pick something else."

He scowled and slouched back in his chair. Goofing off was the last thing he wanted to do, but at least it would get him out of this damn house. He mulled the idea over some more, trying to think of at least a few things that he _could_ still do. "Do you like Ferris wheels?"

"Uh, sure," Dana said, taken by surprise. "I mean, who doesn't, right?"

"Are there any good ones around here?" he asked, hopeful.

"Actually… you're in luck – the state fair just started up a few days ago, and there was a pretty cool Ferris wheel there last year," Dana said. "I would have figured you more for the psychotic roller coaster type, though."

John shook his head. "No way, it's always been Ferris wheels..." he said, then trailed off, embarrassed.

"Because they take you into the sky," Dana finished for him, understanding all at once.

"Yeah," he said, smiling a little, grateful to her for that, for being here.

"Do you wanna go?" Dana said, bouncing to her feet and tugging on his hand.

John took a deep breath, marveling at the strange turns his life kept taking. _What the hell,_ he thought after a moment, then grinned. "Yeah, I do."

--A--

They spent the entire day at the fair. John and Dana had ridden the Ferris wheel four times in a row before Dana finally begged him to take mercy on her rebelling stomach. She held tightly to his arm as she navigated him through the crowds, maintaining a running commentary on the numerous rides, the stands of junk food and games, the weirdly dressed people milling around them, and the jumble of loud noises took on some context for him.

When they sat down to take a break, John contentedly munched on cotton candy, soggy fries and a greasy hotdog with all the works. He grinned at the thought of McKay having conniptions over the lack of nutritional value and multiple carcinogenic preservatives he was ingesting, and it felt good to forget the world for a while.

Then they'd tried a few other rides, including one that Dana told him was called 'The Twirl and Hurl,' and which reminded John of the time the inertial dampeners on the jumper had winked out on him for a few seconds on a landing.

Before they left, John took one more ride on the huge Ferris wheel alone. He closed his eyes, the hot desert air rushing in his ears, and he allowed the gentle swooping motion to lull him, to wash over him. Slowly, up the into sky, and down again, over and over, the repetitive motion strangely soothing, offering him a little peace, a little calm for the first time since he'd lost his sight.

They picked up Tyler at his day camp, and John had treated them all to a dinner of cheeseburgers and sweet potato fries, and Tyler to a reportedly massive ice cream sundae for dessert. Dana's son was as sociable as his mother, and had asked John endless questions about what it was like to be a soldier and to fly an awesome fighter jet like in Top Gun, and where could he get a skateboard like John's own.

John answered all the boy's questions, more than happy to regale him with his best stories, heavily edited for his young listener's ears, of course. In truth, John was dragging out the evening for as long as he could. Dana had kept him happily occupied all day, but soon enough, he'd have to go back to William's place for the night, and he was dreading it.

"Well… some of us have to get up early tomorrow," Dana finally said, and the inevitable couldn't be postponed any longer.

"Aw, come on, mom," Tyler protested. "I haven't even finished my dessert."

"Yeah, mom," John said in commiseration. "He hasn't finished his dessert."

"If he finishes that thing, John, which is seriously big enough to feed half a starving third-world nation, he'll puke in my car on the way home," Dana retorted. "And I really should get you home now, too. You sure you don't want to call you dad before we head out? He's probably ready to call the cops, or something."

"I'm _sure,"_ John said impatiently. He'd left his cell phone at home, and Dana had already offered to let him borrow hers a few times. "Besides, despite my youthful appearance, I haven't had a curfew in years."

"Ha ha," Dana said. "Okay, Ty. Two more bites and we're off."

"Wow, two more _whole_ bites," Tyler groused, "lucky me."

John couldn't help a grin at that, and he found he was sorry to have the evening come to end not just because he'd have to face his father again, but because it was nice to be included in Dana's small family for a little while.

It was only a 20-minute drive back to William's house and to John, it felt even shorter than that. Dana pulled the car into the driveway and came to a stop. "Ty, I'll just be a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay," Tyler said amiably from the backseat, sounding nearly half-asleep. "Good night, John."

"See ya, Tyler," John said, pulling the car door open when he heard Dana's own door opening. There was the shift of the vehicle as she stepped out and then the door closing again. "Hey, it's okay," John said to her, stepping out of the car. "I _can_ find the house on my own now, remember?"

"I know," Dana said, coming around the car to step beside him. "But if it's all the same to you, I want to make sure everything's okay before I leave, otherwise I won't get five minutes of sleep."

"You don't have to do that," John protested, both irritated and oddly touched by her concern. "Besides, I'm bigger than he is now," he tried to joke. "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather see that for myself, so humor me, all right."

John scowled and allowed her to walk him to the front door. He fumbled with his key and opened the door.

"John?" William called from the living room.

"Yeah, it's me, dad," John answered, pausing to kick off his shoes.

"Hi, Mr. Sheppard," Dana said, and John figured that his father had come into the front hallway.

"Ms. Dawson," William said neutrally.

"Call me Dana. Sorry I kept John out so late, but we decided to take a field trip today."

John snorted in amusement at that.

"That so?" William said, skeptical. "Was starting to get worried, John."

Before John could say anything, Dana spoke up. "John is making remarkable progress through a very difficult adjustment, Mr. Sheppard, but he can't do this on his own. He doesn't just need help with daily tasks; he needs your full support, too. He needs to know that he's not alone in this."

"Dana, it's okay—" John said, already anticipating William's reaction to that.

"No… you're right… Dana," William interrupted, surprising him. "Maybe… we can all sit down and talk about how I can be of more help, the next time you come over."

"That's a great idea, Mr. Sheppard," Dana said, as though she hadn't suggested the very same thing early on in John's rehabilitation. "How about tomorrow?"

"Well, if we're all on a first name basis here, then call me William," his father said. "And tomorrow sounds just fine."

"Excellent. I'll bring over some books that you might find helpful. In the meantime, I have a kid with way too much sugar in his bloodstream waiting in the backseat of my car." She touched John's hand, then pulled him into another quick embrace. "I'll see you tomorrow, huh?" she whispered in his ear then let him go, and with a goodnight to his father, she was gone.

John stood still and hesitant in the hallway. He smelled tomato sauce and burned toast – William's dinner. The TV blared some war movie, the sounds of shooting and yelling in the background.

"Why don't you come sit down, John?" William said, lightly touching John's arm.

John nodded and allowed his father to lead him to the armchair in the corner, where he always sat.

"I'm just gonna grab a beer from the fridge," William said. "Do you want one?"

Though he was full from dinner and all the junk food he had eaten throughout the day, John figured he might need a drink or two to get through this night. "Sure," he said with a shrug.

William came back a few moments later, and pressed a cold bottle in John's fingers. His father sat down on the couch with an audible groan.

"What's on?" John said, jerking his chin in the direction of the television at another rapid burst of gunfire.

"I don't know," William said. "Some crappy old John Wayne war movie. Wasn't really watching." There was a clicking sound and the noise cut out in mid-blast. The sudden silence was oppressive and ominous.

"John… I want to talk to you about some things," William said, his voice trembling a little, whether with anger or nervousness, John couldn't tell. "When you didn't come home today at your usual time, it got me thinking about a lot of things you said."

John took a long sip from his beer, saying nothing, waiting for his father to continue.

"Thought that maybe you'd made good on your threat and weren't coming back," William said after a moment.

"It wasn't a threat, dad," John said quietly.

"I know…" William said. "You meant it, that you wanted to leave, and in light of what happened today, I can't say as I blame you. Just promise me that if you do decide to leave, just don't… go without telling me. At least let me help you get set up someplace half-decent, so that I can check on you once in a while."

"All right," John said, uncertain and wishing he could see his father's face.

"I did the best I could with you boys, with your mother," William said quietly. "It wasn't easy sometimes. You were too young to understand during the worst of them, and people didn't talk about it much back then, but Molly went through these depressions. She would just sit and stare at the television set or out the window for days on end, hardly talking, letting you boys run wild when I was gone. Do you remember that? She wouldn't go see a doctor or admit that anything was wrong, and it drove me crazy. When she got sick, in the end, she did the same damn thing. I always had a bad temper, I know that. Gets even worse when I drink, and I know I made a lot of mistakes."

John gripped the bottle so tightly in his hand that he thought it would shatter in his fingers. He didn't know what to say, he didn't know what to do.

"You always made out like I was some kind of monster to her," William softly, almost remorsefully, "but I loved your mother very much. I've lived alone for 15 years and not a day goes by that I don't miss her." William broke off at that and John could hear him taking in a deep breath.

"I miss her, too," John said truthfully.

"You and Graham were always so different," William said after a moment, his voice raspy with emotion. "Graham was easy, he was happy with his books and those models of his, and I didn't worry about him the way I did with you. Sometimes I got a kick out of you, though," William said, quietly, with an uncharacteristic note of affection to his voice. "You were always such a scrapper. Those stunts you pulled – you remember coming home the day after your tenth birthday, dragging your new bike behind you, your arm hanging at the wrong angle. You were more upset about wrecking your bike than busting your arm."

"So were you," John said, clearly remembering that day and flying down that long hill with exhilarating, terrifying speed and crashing only when he reached the bottom. He remembered sitting in the backseat of the car and listening to his father yelling at him the entire ride to the hospital. "Do you think bikes grow on goddamn trees?" he said, imitating William's gruff voice. To his surprise, William chuckled a little.

"I didn't care about the damn bike, John. I always thought that you'd kill yourself one day, doing all that stupid stuff. You weren't scared of a thing when you were a kid, and that scared the hell out of _me._ I know I was too hard on you sometimes because of that. You were just a kid, and kids mess up sometimes."

"Dad…" John began, uncertain what he wanted to say.

"I've just been alone too long," William said quietly. "Used to doing my own thing, answering to no one but myself. I thought that if I offered you a roof over your head and made sure that you were taken care of, it would be good enough. But you're right. I suppose I _have_ been avoiding you, and it's not because I'm ashamed of you or disappointed in you, it's because I don't know how to make this any better for you. I don't even know what the hell to _say_ to you. Last time I saw you, you were still a kid. But you're a grown man now, Johnny, and I don't even know you anymore. I don't know my own son, and what kind of failure as a father does that make me?"

John leaned forward in his chair, feeling strangely light-headed. He'd never thought his father capable of this, of reaching out like this, and he was afraid of shattering the fragile truce. He pressed his lips tight together and swallowed hard before trusting his voice to speak. "Maybe we just need to start over," he said slowly, carefully. "Get to know each other again."

There was a long pause and then William cleared his throat. "We could do that, I suppose," he said, hopeful.

"Okay," John said, grinning mischievously. "Hi, my name's John Sheppard. I used to be a soldier and a pilot, but now I'm thinking that maybe I should get into accounting now. I was always good at math, even though I usually pretended not to be because it was never considered very cool to be a math geek. My favorite color is blue, T-bone steak and a baked potato with lots of butter on it is my favorite meal. I still like Ferris wheels, but the 'Whirl and Hurl' down at the state fair is running in at a close second."

William let out another chuckle, then fell silent. "I'm so sorry this happened to you, Johnny," he said softly after a moment. "If I could, I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat. I'm an old man, I've done everything I wanted to, but you've still got your whole life ahead of you… this just isn't right…"

"Dad…" John said, surprised at the wavering, tearful sound to his dad's voice. "It's okay. This… what happened to me was just a stupid accident. Yeah, it sucks, and I don't think I'll ever get used to living like this, but I didn't mean what I said before. I can deal with it." He paused and picked at the label of his bottle. "I… I didn't mean what I said at mom's funeral either."

"I know," William nearly whispered. "Let's just forgot all that, all right? Like you said, we'll start over."

"Okay," John said, nodding, tears of relief and gratitude burning behind his eyes. He blinked a few times to force them back.

"I need another beer," William said decisively. "You want one, too?"

John held up his half-full bottle. "Thanks, but I'm good."

"All right," William said. As his father passed by him, John felt something brush his sleeve, then a firm grip on his shoulder. William left his hand there and John reached up, and his dad took his hand, just holding it, his gnarled fingers trembling and cold against John's own. Then William let go and ruffled the hair at the nape of John's neck, like he used to do when John was a kid, before going into the kitchen.

Though he tried to be quiet about it, John could hear William blowing his nose a few times before coming back into the living room and settling back down on the couch.

"Tomorrow, after you're finished with whatsername, maybe you and I could test drive one of those Camrys," William said. "Wouldn't mind your opinion. Graham doesn't know shit about cars – he drives one of those prissy little MG's, if you can believe that. Tracey's gotten so big – she can barely fit in the damn thing."

John burst out laughing. "Now _that_ I'd like to see."

"Don't know why I hadn't thought of it before, and maybe you don't want to hang around with a bunch of cranky old men, pissing and moaning about their prostates and hip replacements," William said casually as he flicked the television set back on. "But maybe you'd like to come down to the Legion with me this weekend. Swap a few stories with the old farts."

"Okay," John said equally casual and smiling a little. "Any of them see any decent action?"

"Yeah, some of them were in WWII, most did a few tours in Korea and 'Nam," William answered, flipping channels until he came back to the John Wayne movie, the sounds of battle an appropriate backdrop.

The following day, William made good on his promise of sitting down with John and Dana and taking an active interest in his son's rehabilitation, and John agreed to try attending Dana's brother's next support group meeting, which took place in a few days.

Once Dana had left, William and John had driven down to a car lot and had taken a Camry for a test drive, of which John offered his full approval. William bought it there and then, claiming he'd wanted one for a long time anyway – he'd just needed that extra little push.

As the next five weeks passed, John didn't make another mention of moving out, and he and William settled into a comfortable routine. While John wouldn't say that they had grown close, they _were_ making a conscientious effort to get to know one another again. To John's surprise, he found that he and his dad had a lot more in common that he would have previously thought possible. John became a regular with William's crowd at the Legion, and John and one of William's buddies, Nick, a chopper pilot who'd served in Korea, quickly became fast friends.

Dana had been right – things did get better. John had submitted an application for a guide dog and was hoping to hear back from them in a few weeks. He'd tried a couple of the group therapy sessions and while he didn't plan on becoming a regular attendee – the free beers and the old guys at the Legion seemed far more therapeutic – the sessions weren't as bad as he'd thought they'd be. Maybe he'd even go again next week. Even still, he knew that he would need to venture out on his own soon, to find something more than this.

He was completely unprepared when that something came to him. He was stretched out on the couch, nursing a beer and drowsily listening to a football game on TV when the doorbell rang. William was out back mowing the lawn, so John ignored the bell, figuring that whoever it was would go away. Unfortunately, whoever it was didn't give up so easily. The doorbell rang again, then again. And again.

Cursing and hurling himself up from the couch, John felt his way to the front door. The bell rang again and he shouted at it. "All right! Keep your damn shorts on! I'm coming!" He pulled open the door to be met with resounding silence. "Uh… hello?" he called, scowling.

"I hope you have another one of those for me?" the person on the other side of the door finally said.

John blinked, confused, then realized that he was still holding his beer in one hand. "McKay?" he said, incredulous, disbelieving, even though he'd recognize that voice anywhere.

* * *

-- tbc --


	8. Chapter 7 i

In my happy little universe, _Outcast_ never happened. (squeezes eyes shut, clamps hands over ears) Lalalalalalalalalalalalaaaaa….

There are a couple of cultural references in here that may need explanation and deserve due credit:

'The Great Santini ' - written by the wonderful Pat Conroy, is about a tough as nails fighter pilot Lt. Col. and his tumultuous love/hate relationship with his family.

'Romancing the Stone' - an 80's movie with Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner, and many of my male friends have asserted that Kathleen's deep voice is indisputably 'hot,' so I'm taking their word for it. And here we go, finally the next chapter:

* * *

"McKay?" John said, incredulous, and Rodney couldn't hold back a grin at the astonished, yet hopeful expression on his friend's face.

"Yup – in the flesh," Rodney replied, still grinning.

John just stood there, mouth hanging open, his head tilted a little, as though he couldn't quite believe his ears. Then in a rare, unguarded moment, his face lit up with a happy smile. "What are you _doing_ here?"

"What?" Rodney said, with a shrug, "you were expecting someone else?"

"Actually… yeah," John admitted. "Figured you were some girl-scout selling cookies, or something."

"Those are really good cookies, you know," Rodney said.

"Yeah, the chocolate mint ones are the best," John agreed, still looking completely bowled over.

In truth, Rodney found himself caught almost as off-guard. He hadn't expected John to be the one to answer the door, and it had taken a moment for Rodney to find his voice. He also hadn't expected John to look so… _healthy,_ either. Dressed in only a well-worn gray T-shirt and faded, cut-off fatigue pants, his skin deeply tanned, hair longish and sun-bleached, John looked better than healthy – he looked… _good._ Of course, Rodney hadn't expected his friend to be wallowing in a closet all this time, but still… he hadn't even considered the possibility that John might be coping and doing just fine without all of them. For a moment, Rodney's assurance faltered.

"So, uh, can I come in?" he finally asked when John just stood there in the doorway, one hand on the doorframe, the other clutching his half-empty beer bottle.

"Oh… right," John breathed out, taking a few steps back and nearly slapping himself in the forehead at his lapse in manners. "Sorry." His expression sobered, and in the space of one moment to the next, he seemed self-conscious, inexplicably nervous. "I... uh… it's…" he stammered, then shook his head, impatient with himself. "Come on in, Rodney."

"Thanks." Rodney stepped past John and into the house. The cool air was an instant respite from the dry heat. Rodney didn't see or hear any sign of John's father, and taking a glance around, he noted that the inside of the house was tastefully decorated, the furniture simple but expensive looking, giving it an illusion of greater space. Rodney wasn't sure if he should hug John, or slap him on the back, and so he settled for a manly punch on the shoulder. "I'll have to say, being an Earthling again seems to suit you," he said, only half-joking. "You look like an extra on Baywatch."

"_Only_ an extra?" John said, quirking an eyebrow and taking a few steps into the hallway. "Um, so, do you still want that beer?"

"Yeah, sure," Rodney said, frowning a little at John's unease. "Beer would be great."

"One beer coming up," John said, and Rodney followed him as he made his way to the kitchen. The only giveaway that John couldn't see was the way he ran his fingers along the wall as he walked; otherwise, he moved confidently, with a hint of his old, natural grace. Rodney was again surprised by the progress his friend seemed to have made over the past five months.

"Nice place your dad has here," Rodney said truthfully, looking at the rustic table and chairs in the kitchen, the gleaming hardwood floors, granite tile countertops and stainless steel appliances. "It's uh, really… clean," he added somewhat inanely.

"Yeah, I guess," John said, pausing in the middle of the kitchen. Moving cautiously for the first time, he took a few uncertain steps toward the refrigerator and felt around until he found the handle. Pulling open the door, he crouched down, shoving things around inside.

There was a strange rattling sound coming from outside, and Rodney peered out the sliding doors to see John's father pushing a lawnmower over already short grass. Funny – he'd almost forgotten what a lawnmower sounded like.

"So… it looks like you and your old man managed not to kill each other yet, huh?" Rodney said, stepping close behind John again, trying to make small talk, something at which he'd always sucked. In truth, he was dying to get down to business, but of course he couldn't just blurt it all out at once, not even to Sheppard. After all, one had to be diplomatic about these sorts of things.

"We're doing okay," John replied, his voice a little muffled by the fridge door, still feeling around inside.

"Do you… I can get it, if you want," Rodney offered.

"Nah, I got it. It's the last one – got shoved to the back," John said, straightening and bumping into Rodney as he turned around, a bottle in his hand. "Sorry…" he muttered and held out the bottle for Rodney to take. "Do you want a glass?"

"No, this is good," Rodney said, accepting it and twisting off the cap and taking a wonderfully cool sip.

"So… umm…" John shuffled his feet again, his shoulders tensed. "What's wrong? What's happened?" he asked, his features carefully blank, but Rodney could detect the fear in his eyes.

"What?" Rodney stared at his friend, then suddenly understood the reason behind John's odd nervousness. No, not nerves, he was bracing himself for bad news. "Nonono! Everything's okay!" Rodney blurted, quickly reassuring him. _"Better_ than okay, in fact."

John visibly relaxed, all but letting out a breath of relief. "Jesus… you scared the shit of me, Rodney. I thought that… that maybe… Ronon or Teyla, or the Wr—"

"No," Rodney said firmly. "Nothing like that. Everyone's fine. Absolutely, one hundred percent fine. Sorry, I didn't think… I didn't mean to scare you. I just… wanted to surprise you. I guess I should have called first—"

"No… no, it's okay." John shook his head, smiling a little in relief. "I just didn't expect you to show up like this unless something was wrong."

Rodney tore a hand through his hair, irritated with himself, because he really should have thought of that before racing over here without warning. In an effort to lighten the mood, he shrugged and said, "Hey, can't a guy come visit his old buddy without a written invitation?"

"Of _course_ you can," John said with his lopsided smirk. "I'm just getting paranoid, I guess, and now that I know everything's okay, I have to say," he added a little shyly, "that this _is_ a nice surprise. I'm glad you're here." He shuffled a few steps in an uncertain direction, and again, seemed to remember his social graces. "Do you want to sit down?" He motioned in the general direction of the table.

"Yeah, thanks," Rodney said, relieved they'd gotten that little misunderstanding sorted out. "Gotta say it's kind of strange being back. I forgot how many damn people there are everywhere. Traffic was _nuts."_ He waited a moment, wondering if John needed help finding the table, but without hesitation, John walked right up to it, pulled out a chair and sat down. Rodney took the chair opposite him and gratefully sank down. Between the flight, the traffic and the heat, he was already worn out.

"Did you just get into town?" John asked, slouching in his chair and taking a sip from his beer.

"Yep – flew in from Colorado this morning." Rodney took a long sip from his own bottle, relishing the bubbly chill in his throat as it went down. He'd never been much of a beer drinker before going off-world, but it had been a long time since he'd had a cool one, and it tasted far better than he remembered.

The noise of the lawnmower suddenly stopped, leaving only the sound of a game playing on the TV in the other room. John opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the sliding door pulling open and John's father stepping inside.

William Sheppard turned to close the door behind him and stopped in his tracks when he saw Rodney.

"Hey, General," Rodney said with a little wave.

"Doctor McKay," William said, blinking, almost as surprised by Rodney's sudden appearance as his son. He recovered much more quickly though, and offered Rodney a nod in greeting. "Good of you to stop by."

"That's just what I said," John said, taking a long swig from his beer and carefully setting the bottle down on the table.

"Well, I heard Reno's hot this time of year," Rodney said with a shrug. "So what better time to visit?"

"You _hate_ the heat," John reminded him.

"True," Rodney amended, then waved a hand in John's direction. "There? You see what a good friend I am? Coming to this scorching dustbowl just to see you?"

"I'm touched, McKay," John told him, all mock earnestness.

"You _should_ be," Rodney said. "I wouldn't do this for just anyone."

"Ah, it's not even _that_ hot anymore," John scoffed. "You should have been here in July."

"So I should count myself lucky, then?"

William Sheppard looked back and forth between his son and Rodney with something that Rodney could have sworn was amusement, then went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of juice.

"So, hey, Sheppard, I was thinking maybe you and I could get some lunch somewhere?" Rodney said after a moment, hopeful. "I'm starving."

"Sure," John agreed, almost back to his usual, amiable self again, for which Rodney was grateful. "Let me guess – sushi?"

"No, not quite in the mood for sushi today," Rodney said, although, in truth, he wouldn't mind a spicy tuna roll, some gyoza, yakitori, tekka don... and he cut off the thought right there when his mouth started watering. The true way to make John Sheppard happy was to give him a big, juicy slab of beef. "Was kind of craving a burger, actually," he said, and he _was_ hungry enough that a dripping cheeseburger with the works wouldn't be bad, at all. "A big, fat cheeseburger from Earth co—uhh, _beef._ Real non-soy laced beef, I mean," he corrected, darting a glance at John's father.

William paused with his glass halfway to his mouth and gave him an odd look.

"Rodney's girlfriend's a vegetarian," John said, quickly covering for him. "The poor guy's deprived."

"Yeah, tofu surprise every night," Rodney added, thinking of that horrible meal he'd had at Jeannie's place, and he couldn't hold back a shudder. He'd been surprised, all right, and so not in a good way.

William only nodded, frowning a little.

"And a burger sounds _perfect _to me," John said and stood up from his chair, keeping his fingertips on the table. "I even know of a _great_ joint that serves real burgers. You got a car out front?"

"Yeah, a rental," Rodney said, getting to his own feet.

"Cool, let's go," John said, sliding his hand along the table then heading for the doorway out of the kitchen. Rodney was again surprised at how well John could find his way around.

"You might want to get changed first, Johnny," William called after him with a smile.

John paused, frowned in puzzlement then his hand strayed to the tattered hem of his T-shirt. "Oh… yeah." He ducked his head, embarrassed. "Be right back."

He made his way down the long hallway, leaving Rodney alone in the kitchen with William. The impatience to tell John his news nearly had Rodney vibrating, but he could hold off a while longer. Take his time, pick the right moment. After all, he'd had been waiting for nearly two weeks to get his clearance to come here. He took a long sip of beer, trying to finish it off.

"So what brings you to town, Dr. McKay?" William asked. "Business?"

"Yeah," Rodney agreed. "A little business. Also wanted to see how he was doing," he added, jerking his thumb in the direction of the hallway.

William looked at him a moment, as though assessing him. "You and Johnny got to be pretty good friends on that outpost where you were stationed?"

Rodney blinked, uncertain just how much Sheppard had told his father, and so he nodded. "Yes, we are. In fact, he's one of the best friends I've ever had," he said looking William straight in the eye. He had no idea where the man was going with this, but Rodney had no intention of revealing any weakness or hesitation.

William only gave a curt nod, as if Rodney had merely verified what he'd already known. "He talks about you a lot," William added. "It'll be good for him to spend some time with a close friend."

Rodney found himself momentarily at a loss for words, again uncertain what to make of this new side to John's father. It was like night and day from the man he'd met at the airport. Rodney glanced at the doorway before taking a chance and asking, "So… how's he doing? Really?"

William rasped a hand over his chin, carefully considering his words. "Well, it hasn't been easy on him, that's for sure, but he's a tough kid," he said in a proud voice. "He's managing just fine."

"Okay, you can stop talking about me now," John announced from the hallway.

"Don't flatter yourself, Sheppard," Rodney immediately shot back and stepped to the entrance where John stood waiting.

"I could _hear_ you all the way down the hall," John pointed out, still buttoning his shirt. "Just remember, the blind develop real sharp ears."

"And pointy, too," Rodney said with a smirk. William chuckled behind him.

"You know, I always wondered where he got those ears from," he said, joining them in the front hall. "Doesn't run on _my_ side of the family, that's for sure."

"Hey, women _love_ my ears," John protested, but even still, he ruffled his hair, trying to cover the tips of his ears, which had turned a little pink. "So can we go now, or do you two want to make fun of the blind guy some more?"

"No, I think we're done," Rodney said. He held out his hand to William. "Good to see you again, General."

William clasped his hand. "And you, too, Dr. McKay." He looked over to John. "You got your cell phone, Johnny?"

John patted his shirt pocket. "Yep."

"Let me know if you'll be back for dinner, or not."

"All right," John said as he reached for a thin, silver cane propped by the door.

"You're invited, of course, Dr. McKay," William added and Rodney nodded in thanks.

Rodney hovered behind John as he pulled out a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket, then tapped his way out the door, down the steps and to the sidewalk. Rodney should have expected as much, but it was still strange and unsettling to see John looking like that. Looking just like any other blind man Rodney used to see making his cautious way around downtown Toronto or Vancouver. The old, familiar guilt knotted Rodney's gut, but he forced it back. Now wasn't the time for it.

"The car's just at the curb," he said, looking away from the cane. "So what's up with the Great Santini in there?" Rodney jerked his thumb in the direction of the house as they walked down the driveway. "He was surprisingly… _nice."_

"You read that book?" John said, surprised.

"Nope, watched the movie on TV a long time ago. Robert Duvall, lots of yelling and crying and basketball…"

"The book's way better," John asserted. "And my dad's nowhere near as bad as that. We just… needed to get to know each other again, that's all."

"Yeah?" Rodney said, surprised by the change in John's attitude towards his father. "So that's… going well?"

"Yeah," John said, sounding surprised himself. "It is."

"Huh." Rodney breathed out. Some wonders never ceased. "Well… I'm glad to hear that," he said truthfully, remembering all too well John's fear and Rodney's own reluctance to leave him back in that airport parking lot over five months ago. No kid, no matter how old he was, should ever react that way to his own father, Rodney thought.

As John stepped a little ahead of him, Rodney noticed for the first time what he was now wearing. "Hey, that's a nice shirt."

"Is it?" John said, his hand straying to the collar of his soft, white-patterned short-sleeved shirt. "Dana picked it out."

"Who's Dana?"

"My orientation and mobility therapist."

"You have a therapist who shops for you?" Rodney said with a smirk. "So is she hot?"

"How the hell would _I_ know?" John retorted.

"Oh. Right," Rodney said, scrunching his face apologetically. "Well, does she _sound_ hot?"

"What? What kind of question is that?" John said as Rodney directed him to the passenger side of the car. "Well, actually… yeah," he amended. "She's kinda got that Kathleen Turner voice thing going on."

"Kathleen Turner's definitely hot," Rodney asserted. "Or at least she was in that stupid Indiana Jones type movie…" He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. "What's it called again?"

John thought a moment. "Romancing the Stone."

"Yeah, that's it," Rodney said, pulling open the door for John. "So she's hot, then?"

"Why? Do you want me to set you up on a date with her, or something?" John said as he slid into the passenger seat.

"Yeah, right. I don't think Katie would be too crazy about that," Rodney scoffed. He walked over to the driver's side. "Why?" he said as he got in the car and started the engine. "She single?"

John just shook his head and laughed.

Rodney blinked at him. "What?"

"I can't believe I'm actually admitting this, but I… I kinda missed you."

Rodney stared at him a moment, unsure if John was joking or not. Then he noticed that John was pulling at his upper lip with his teeth, the way he always did when self-conscious about something, and Rodney realized the truth in his words.

"I uh… I missed you, too," he quickly said. "You won't _believe_ who Elizabeth tried to replace you with as our team leader."

"She replaced me? With who?" John said almost defensively. "Although I'm sure she did the best she could…"

"Ah, don't get all territorial," Rodney waved a dismissive hand and put the car in gear. "The idiot didn't even last a month."

"Really? What did you guys do to him?" John smirked, sounding oddly both suspicious and relieved.

Rodney grinned as pulled away from the curb. "Ronon scared the shit out of him."

"Ronon scares the shit out of _everyone,"_ John pointed out. "And well, the poor guy _did_ have a tough act to follow," he added with a shrug. "After all, who could be a better team leader than _me?"_

"Yep," Rodney agreed. "Ronon, Teyla and I are presently and happily teamleaderless. So where are we going?"

John gave Rodney concise directions to the burger joint that he admitted he loved enough to have memorized the way there. Once at the crowded restaurant, Rodney suggested that they get their meals to go. After all, what he had to say to John couldn't be said with an audience around. Rodney asked the cashier if there were any parks nearby, and he was happy to learn that there was one only five minutes away.

And as they walked across the uneven terrain of the park, Rodney carrying the takeout bag with one hand, John stumbled a little, cursing under his breath. Rodney quickly caught hold of him, letting go once John regained his footing. Rodney hovered close beside him though, his shoulder brushing John's, waiting to see if John would accept his help. After a moment, he did, loosely clasping his fingers around Rodney's forearm, the way he used to, back on Atlantis.

They settled at the nearest empty picnic table shaded by a tall pine tree. John took off his sunglasses, placed them on the table and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Looking around, Rodney noted that there weren't too many people nearby; just a few couples, enjoying their own picnics, and a small group of elementary school-aged kids tearing around, laughing as they chased each other, a cocker spaniel bouncing around them, barking joyously.

Watching them a moment, Rodney was struck by the innocent normalcy of the setting. The only concerns those people had were their average jobs, their mortgage payments and how they'd pay for their kids' college educations. It was strange how surreal this felt to him, as though he were on a mission to some alien planet, instead of returning to his former home.

Rodney shook his head and pushed back the ridiculous thought. He'd simply been away for too long.

Pulling their steaming food from the brown paper bag, Rodney unwrapped John's burger and fries and set them in front of him. Thanking him, John dug into his burger, and Rodney suddenly noticed that the scars around John's eyes had faded enough that they were almost unnoticeable. Where the worst of them had been, at the highest point of his left cheekbone, there were still a few stark, pinkish-white lines and flecks, but once his tan was gone, those scars would fade, too.

Unwrapping his own burger, Rodney waited until they'd each eaten half of their meals before telling John the real reason for his surprise visit. He forced himself to go slowly, to explain to his friend how it had all come about. He started with Radek finding the gate address on the seemingly demonically invulnerable tablet. He told John in as much detail as he could remember of the subsequent exploration mission to the abandoned Ancient city. And then, he told him about the still operational control chair.

John just sat there listening and nodding in the appropriate places.

"Do you know what this means, Sheppard?" Rodney said, looking expectantly at his friend. He'd hoped that John would show at least _some_ enthusiasm over this amazing development.

Not really," John said, frowning a little, mopping his fries with ketchup and shoving a few in his mouth.

"It _means_," Rodney paused for effect, "we need someone who can fully activate that chair."

He waited, but John kept munching on his fries, and so far, seemed completely unimpressed.

Rodney sighed and shook his head. "We need _you,_ John."

John paused in mid-chew. "What? Me?"

"Yes! Of _course_ you!" Rodney nearly shouted in his excitement, then lowered his voice when a couple of the kids stopped and stared over at them. "Who _else_ can operate a control chair the way you can, and why else would I be here and _telling_ you all of this?"

"Well, I thought you were paying a surprise visit to your old buddy," John drawled, playing with the greasy wrapper on the table, "just because you're such a pal and all."

"That, too, of course," Rodney quickly amending, nodding, "but as usual, you're entirely missing the _point."_

"And the point being?"

"You get to come back to _Atlantis,"_ Rodney said, nearly whispering the last word, and why the hell was this so hard for everyone to understand?

"I think you've forgotten that I'm no longer with the military," John quietly said, tearing long strips off the paper wrapper.

"Sheppard, who do you think gave me clearance to come here and tell you this?"

"Really?" John said, abandoning the wrapper in surprise. "The military authorized this?"

"Of _course_ they did," Rodney said, grinning. "You should have seen Landry's face light up at the mere _mention_ of another ZedPM, the pompous ass. Once I reminded the SGC of the fact that you're now the only person we know of who can activate a control chair, and therefore our best and only chance of accessing the ZedPM, they didn't bat an eye in giving you temporary clearance to return to Atlantis. And naturally, I volunteered to be the one to tell you in person and bring you back to the SGC." Rodney paused to take a breath. "But that's only the half of it. I wish you could _see_ this city, John! It's amazing. There's gotta be countless devices that you can activate. It could take weeks, _months,_ even."

John scowled and didn't say anything, and that was _so_ not the reaction Rodney had been anticipating.

"Why are you not getting excited here?" Rodney waved his hands in frustration.

"Again, you're forgetting the simple fact that getting around is a little more challenging for me right now, Rodney," John said, still frowning.

"Don't worry about that," Rodney reassured him. "In fact, that's the beauty of this whole thing. You don't _have_ to be able to see to activate Ancient technology. It responds to your thoughts and your touch, remember? God, half the time, all you have to do is enter a room, and it responds to you. In fact, you are now classified as an advisor and consultant on Ancient technology. Well, once you sign all the paperwork, of course."

"A consultant," John said, more than a note of skepticism to his voice.

"On Ancient technology. Has a nice official ring to it, doesn't it?"

Instead of being reassured, John scowled again. "Sounds more like a polite term for a lab rat."

"No." Rodney shook his head. _"Not_ a lab rat. Not at all. Sheppard, are you even _listening_ to me?"

"I'm listening," John said slowly, almost carefully. "I'm just not sure I'm all that interested."

"What?" Rodney yelped, and this just wasn't possible. "You can't say no! I can't _believe_ you're saying no! You're not seriously telling me _no?"_ When John didn't say anything, Rodney impatiently slapped his hand on the table, causing John to jump a little. "Do you have _any_ idea what I had to go through to come here and ask you this? Elizabeth's so pissed she won't even look at me."

"You mean Elizabeth didn't agree to this?" John said, confused.

Rodney took a breath and winced a little. "Um… no. I kind of… went way over her head because she was being unreasonable. She was all worried about your feelings and safety and something else that I can't remember that's typical of women."

"Yeah, that was _really_ unreasonable of her," John nodded, quirking his eyebrow.

"I know!" Rodney agreed, then realized how that came out. "I mean… I… naturally I'm concerned about that, too, but come _on,_ Sheppard! Don't you get it? You get to come back!"

John worried at his lip with his teeth and set to back to the ripping up the wrapper.

Rodney absolutely couldn't believe this. After all, blind or not, this was _Sheppard…_ the guy was _always_ up for a challenge, the more dangerous the better. This was not even _close_ to how Rodney had anticipated this conversation going, but then again, leave it to Sheppard to do the exact opposite of everything he was supposed to do.

Then Rodney noticed the pinched, almost miserable look on John's face, and he forced back his disappointment, took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Maybe he just needed to approach this whole thing a little more carefully, more diplomatically. Suddenly, he thought of that last mission with Major Hardy. Rodney remembered the paralyzing, all-encompassing fear, and how he was still suffering nightmares of that room. _That was it,_ he realized. _That_ was the problem. After all, John had been out of action for a long time. He was just scared and just needed a little time for all this to sink in, that's all.

Rodney ducked his head a little to try to meet his friend's gaze, then remembered. He nearly cursed under his breath at his own stupidity, and how the hell could he keep forgetting the entire reason he and John were sitting here at this picnic table instead of back on Atlantis where they both belonged?

"Look, John…" he said gently and as calmly as he could. "I understand why you'd be a little nervous about going off-world again, but you know that we've always got your back, right? Me, Ronon, Teyla. In fact, Ronon promised to kill anyone who so much as bumps into you."

John smirked a little at the thought of their over-protective friend. "That's not it, Rodney…"

"I mean you _gotta_ be missing Ronon and Teyla, right?" Rodney tried a little desperately when John's voice trailed off and he began playing with the wrapper again.

John took a breath, looking almost stricken. "Of _course_ I miss them, Elizabeth, too, but—"

"But?" Rodney lost his patience at all once. "But what? Why's there a but?"

"Rodney—"

"You can't honestly tell me that you're happier here," Rodney said, and then as he looked at his friend, at the way he was dressed, a sudden possibility struck him. "That therapist!" He pointed at John in accusation. "You're dating her, aren't you? Of _course_ you're dating her. Why didn't you say so?"

John scowled in irritation. _"No._ I am _not_ dating her. Jesus, McKay."

"Well, _what_ then, goddammit!" Rodney said throwing up his hands in utter confusion. "What's the problem?"

John took a deep breath, and he looked so torn with indecision that Rodney's impatience abated as quickly as it had flared up.

"John, just… talk to me," Rodney said, guilt gnawing at him once more, knotting his stomach. "Please? I promise I won't say another word until you're finished, but just tell me what's going on with you."

John shifted on the bench, his fingers nervously picking at the wrapper again. "Do you know how hard it was for me to leave Atlantis?" he finally said, his unfocused hazel eyes suddenly too bright with emotion, and yes, Rodney noted, barely suppressed fear.

"I know." Rodney said softly, remembering all too well how John had reacted to the news of his discharge. How it very nearly derailed him.

"I can't…." John said in a near-whisper, shaking his head. "Don't ask me to do this, Rodney. I can't go back. Not like this." He gestured at his sightless eyes.

Rodney took a deep breath, and _shit,_ this was exactly what Elizabeth had warned him about, and thank _God_ she wasn't around to crow about it. At the same time, he knew that she and John were both being overly cautious. John was just nervous, and Rodney knew with absolute certainty that his friend would be perfectly fine once he was home where he belonged. He also knew that sometimes people didn't know what was best for them, and sometimes, you had to give them a shove in the right direction.

"Okay," Rodney said, steeling something inside him. "You know that the ZedPM on Atlantis is only running on less than three quarters of its power. All it'll take is one Wraith hiveship nosing around where it doesn't belong, or another visit from the Replicators, and we're literally dead in the water. You know that, don't you?"

John stiffened, pressing his mouth to a hard, angry line. "That's not fair, McKay."

"No, it isn't, but that's the situation," Rodney said, looking into John's angry, conflicted eyes, and he knew he'd hit a nerve – John's unconscious hero complex. Exactly what he'd intended to do.

John took a deep, ragged breath and shoved his hair off his forehead.

"John… I – I'm sorry, but just… will you at least think about it?" Rodney nearly pleaded. "I can't promise you anything, but this is a chance to get you back there, back _home._ For _good_. Once you're back on Atlantis, the SGC is bound to finally realize how indispensable you are to the expedition. I… it hasn't been the same without you."

John blinked a few times, and his brows pulled together a little at that. "I'm just a grunt to them, Rodney," he said softly, a faint, but sad smile ghosting his lips. "A highly trained grunt, mind you, but when you can't perform your duty anymore, that's it. It's over. I've accepted that, and maybe you should, too."

"Okay, so… so think of it as a visit then," Rodney suggested, trying a different tactic this time, because there was no way in hell he was giving up on this – even if they had to sit here all night. "Come hang out with the old gang, let everyone fuss all over you, which they _will._ We'll go for a ride in the jumper, check out a new part of the Pegasus galaxy. One last hurrah with the old team. Come on, it'll be _great."_

John couldn't help a smile at that. "You make it sound like a football game."

"Well, if that analogy works for you…" Rodney shrugged. "I do know that Ronon and Teyla were really looking forward to seeing you, and you don't want to disappoint them, do you?"

John didn't say anything for a long time, his hands folding and unfolding in front of him. "Okay…" he finally breathed out, ducking his head a little, "I'll think about it."

"Yeah? Really?" Rodney perked up, grinning happily. "Okay. Okay. Take your time. Finish your burger. I'll finish my coffee and—"

"Actually, I was thinking more like a few days," John broke in.

"A few _days?"_ Rodney echoed incredulously.

"How long do you have clearance for?" John asked with a speculative frown.

"Well, I – I was figuring on being back at the SGC by tomorrow night."

"That's not what I asked."

"I'm cleared for a week," Rodney said with a sigh and closed his eyes. He knew this couldn't be good.

"A week…"John mused aloud, "that's perfect."

"What?" Rodney opened his eyes to look at his friend, and he could all but see an idea brewing on John's face, and that was _never_ good. "Perfect for _what?"_

"You ever take that vacation, McKay?" John asked casually, slurping up what was left of his milkshake.

"No, I haven't had time, Sheppard," Rodney said, mimicking John's drawl.

"Figured as much. You're way too tense," John said, then his face lit up with that familiar, dangerous, ready to do something ridiculously stupid expression. "Hey, here's your chance."

"Chance for what?" Rodney asked carefully.

"A _vacation,_" John said patiently. "Ever been to Ventura, California?"

"If I say yes, will you shut up about this?"

"No." John shook his head and smirked. "And there's _great_ surfing down that way. September's not quite the right time of year for the killer waves – late fall's usually best, but it'll still be good. I'm thinking that maybe you can tell me more about this mission of yours on the drive down. You might even convince me, too."

"Oh, that is _so_ not fair," Rodney said, pointing at his friend.

"No, it isn't." John agreed, grinning. "Let's head out tomorrow morning. I'll bring my board."

"No," Rodney said, narrowing his eyes. "No way. I am _not_ driving you to California."

"It's only about an eight hour drive," John said, shrugging and all but ignoring him. "If we leave early, we can even get there before dark. I know you hate driving in the dark."

"You are _not_ going surfing, either," Rodney said, even though he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"Sure, I am," John said and for the first time, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. "After all, I've got you to watch my back, right? Make sure I don't wind up in Mexico."

* * *

-- tbc --


	9. Chapter 7 ii

A brief pause for the requisite disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Please pardon any geographical inaccuracies (or let me know where I've messed up, and I'll fix it :-) ) - I'm _seriously_ directionally challenged in my own Canuck neighborhood, so that's my excuse... and... onto part 2 of the chapter (7 turned out to be a little long for one post, so apologies for breaking them up):

* * *

"Surfer's Point is one of the best surfing beaches in the world, but it's usually pretty crowded," John said as he shuffled endlessly through the hundreds of songs on his iPod that he'd asked Rodney to plug into the car stereo so they'd have some good road tunes. Head tilted, John listened to yet another song for a few seconds, then skipped ahead, then again and again, and Rodney's scowl deepened at every interrupted guitar riff or opening chord. In truth, he was getting seriously tempted to chuck the damn thing out of the car.

"Rincon's good, too," John added, finally stopping at a song with a jaunty country beat, "and you gotta see San Buenaventura – two miles of sandy beach."

Then Johnny Cash's baritone voice filled the air; _Love is a burning thing and it makes a fiery ring…_

"Oh, no… for Christ's sakes, Sheppard!" Rodney protested, scrunching his face with disgust.

"What?" John said in mock innocence.

"This is revenge, right?" Rodney said pointing at him. "This is your way of getting back at me, isn't it?"

"Hey, _you're_ the one who put all these songs on here."

"For you!" Rodney protested. "I never thought I'd be subjected to them myself."

"How can you _not_ like the Man in Black, McKay?" John drawled, drumming his fingers on his knee.

"How many reasons do you _want?"_

"You know what your problem is?" John told him cheerfully. "You have no taste in music whatsoever." The song came to the chorus and he joined in, mimicking Cash's deep timbre, "And it burns, burns, burns, burns, burns…"

Rodney shook his head, gritted his teeth, and tried to convince himself that he _would_ survive this. After all, he'd endured being captured by Wraiths, tortured by power-mad Genii's, survived getting trapped in a sunken jumper, he'd even nearly Ascended, for God's sakes… he could get through _this._ He could. He just wouldn't enjoy it.

"Did you know that I'm named after The Man himself?" John said. "That's why my dad calls me Johnny all the time."

Rodney looked at him, frowning. Sheppard's dad struck him more as a Perry Como type. "Really?"

"Nope, but it makes a good story, doesn't it?" John smirked.

"No, it doesn't." Rodney shook his head, more convinced than ever that his friend was completely insane.

After finishing their lunch yesterday, he and John had taken a drive around town. After all, as John kept reminding him, Rodney _was_ on vacation, and he may as well take in the sights around Reno. While Rodney drove, half-heartedly critiquing the numerous casinos they passed, John called his therapist and cancelled his appointments for the week. John laughed at something she said, and Rodney was tempted to ask if he could say to hi to her and hear this reportedly sexy voice himself.

Later, Rodney had taken the general up on his dinner invitation. After all, food always cheered him up. To his delight, William ordered some excellent Szechuan and had replenished the beer with a case of Coronas. They stayed up so late that Rodney had ended up sleeping on the surprisingly comfortable sofa, and besides, in his over-eager optimism, he hadn't thought to reserve a hotel room. All in all, despite his frustration and disappointment, the evening had turned out… nice.

The next morning, John came up with the idea of trading up Rodney's sensible Toyota Corolla rental for a convertible, and Rodney didn't even bother arguing over that – John wouldn't have listened anyway . They ended up with a Pontiac Sunfire, the only convertible on the lot. John had whined about its 'lack of muscle ' but amended that as long as there was a top to put down so that they could catch some rays, he was cool with it.

And that was how Rodney found himself driving an open-topped teal green convertible down Highway I5-S, heading for some freaking surfer beach in California, a surfboard propped in the backseat and Johnny Cash blaring on the stereo. It really didn't get any more surreal than this.

"McKay."

"What?"

"Lighten up, already," John told him.

"Hey, I'm _light."_

"No you're not. I can practically _hear_ you grinding your teeth over there."

"How can you hear anything over _that?"_ Rodney waved at the stereo.

John sighed, leaned forward and hit the shuffle button again. Tom Petty began singing about how the waiting is the hardest part, and Rodney could fully commiserate with him.

"Why couldn't we have just taken a _plane?"_

"The point of a road trip is to actually hit the open road, McKay."

"And which takes three times as long," Rodney groused.

"Your precious Ancient outpost isn't going to disappear overnight, you know."

"Hah, you've obviously forgotten about the Replicators."

"They haven't found the place in 10,000 years, they're not going to find it in the next week."

"Do I have to remind you of our almost constant string of bad luck when it comes to acquiring ZedPM's?"

"Well, if we miss this one, there's always more of them around," John shrugged.

"Oh, sure, they're just lying around everywhere," Rodney said, waving an arm. "They practically grow on trees."

"Hey, if the Replicators decide to drop by that planet tomorrow, just be grateful you weren't around for it."

Rodney didn't know what to say to that typical John Sheppard logic, and so he just drove with Tom Petty _hey yay yaying_ over the stereo.

"So come on," John urged, "tell me, what's been going on at Atlantis all this time?"

"Oh, the usual," Rodney shrugged.

"The usual?" John frowned. "I thought you said that things were fine."

"Okay, not the usual," Rodney corrected himself. "Quiet. It's been very, very quiet."

"Really?" John said, quirking a skeptical eyebrow.

"Well, actually, other than the Ancient outpost, I hadn't been going off-world much. Too busy." Rodney didn't want to admit the truth of the matter. Sheppard didn't need to know about that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"Huh," John said looking almost disappointed. "Woulda figured at least _something_ exciting happened in five months. So what have you guys been doing? Being 'teamleaderless,' and all?"

"Oh, this and that," Rodney said. "Ronon and Teyla are training the grunts to kill a grown man 17 different ways with their bare hands, and I've been trying not to kill Radek."

John shook his head in dismay. "Jeez, I leave and you guys turn into lazy asses."

"Which is _exactly_ why we need you to come back."

"Vacation first, Rodney," John told him waggling a finger in vaguely familiar, yet un-Sheppard-like gesture. "Shop talk later."

"Oh, but _you_ said I could try to convince you on the way down," Rodney reminded him, waggling his own finger without realizing it. "That was the deal, remember?"

"So I changed my mind." John shrugged.

"What? You can't just change your mind!"

"I just did."

"Okay, fine," Rodney shot back. "Well, I'm changing my mind, too. I might even just turn this car around right now, drop you off back home and forget this whole idea."

"You wouldn't do that," John said sprawling in his seat, not the least bit concerned. "You admitted it yourself. You missed me."

"Well, I changed my mind on that, too," Rodney sneered, but John just grinned.

Rodney pulled his hat tighter on his head and wondered if he should pull over and put some more sunscreen on his arms. They were looking a little pink. "You realize I'm going to be burned to a crisp by the time we get there."

"Ah you'll be fine. This is _good_ for you." John slouched even further in his seat, and dropped his head against the headrest, his hair fluttering in the wind, arm casually draped over the passenger door, and how the hell did the guy always manage to look so damn _relaxed?_

In time, they eased into a conversation about anything and everything – movies, comic books, comic book characters and which one was the ultimate in cool. John predictably voted for Mr. Fantastic with Wolverine as his second choice, and Rodney couldn't decide between Batman and Spiderman (the true comic book version, _not_ the lame movies). And for a while, things almost felt back to normal.

Then John began to talk about his therapy, and how he was slowly learning to get around on his own. He told Rodney that he was on a waiting list for a guide dog, but Dana had assured him that he was an excellent candidate and more than likely to be approved. He mentioned that he'd been thinking about maybe buying a house on the beach one day – part of the reason for this impromptu trip – he wanted to get a feel for the coast again.

And listening to his friend, Rodney realized that unlike himself, John had moved on, or at least he was making efforts to, and making the fact pretty damn clear. For the first time, Rodney began to question whether his motives for bringing John back to Atlantis were as altruistic as he'd tried to convince everyone, as he'd tried to convince himself. That realization only served to heighten his sour mood.

They stopped for a late lunch at an old-fashioned fish and chips place where their meals came wrapped in newspaper. Sitting at the tables outside, Rodney had to admit that it was perfect traveling weather – clear blue skies with only a hint of a breeze, and now that they were closer to the California border, the air was a little cooler, less dry. Still, he couldn't shake his irritation at getting shanghaied into this.

Three and a half hours away from their destination, unaccustomed to driving for such a long stretch, Rodney's back was killing him, he had a slight but nagging headache and there weren't any rest stops coming up that he could tell. He shifted in his seat and couldn't suppress a huge yawn.

"Do you want me to drive for a while?" John offered.

Rodney looked over at him. "Oh, sure, take right over. I'll just catch some shut-eye for an hour or so."

"Are we on a straight stretch of highway?" John asked, sitting up a little. "It _feels_ pretty straight."

"Yeah, straight as an arrow," Rodney answered without thinking, then pointed a finger at his friend. "I am _not_ letting you drive."

"Aw, come on, Rodney," John said in his best pleading voice, and making the puppy dog face that even Ronon had trouble turning down. But Rodney was stronger than that.

"No."

"You can steer—"

"No!" Rodney nearly shouted. "Are you _insane? _Or do you just have a death wish or something? No, you _cannot_ drive!"

John slumped back in his seat, defeated. _"Jesus,_ Rodney, were you always this much of an asshole or did you have to work at it?" he shot back. "I was _kidding. _I _know_ I can't drive. I _know_ I can't do any fucking thing."

"Hey, John…" Rodney said, but John leaned forward and cranked up the stereo, shutting him out. John slouched back again, crossing his arms over his chest. Rodney kept driving, and after a few moments of silence, he glanced back at his friend. He was surprised that John looked seriously pissed, and Rodney knew he had taken his irritation way too far.

He thought of everything that he and John been through together over the years. How many times had they cut it so close on missions that they'd fully expected to never see another day? Too many. He thought of that night on the balcony and how terrifyingly close John had come to ending everything. Looking at his friend, at the still visible scars on his cheekbone, Rodney was suddenly and miserably ashamed of himself. All the guy wanted to do was have a little fun for a change, hang out on the beach for a few days with his so-called friend, and here Rodney was, doing his damnedest to ruin it, to make it as miserable a time as possible for both of them.

With a sigh, Rodney watched the road for a straighter stretch of shoulder, and there… even better. Off to the right, an old gravel road that looked as though it hadn't been used in a long time. He twisted the wheel, pulling off the highway, the car jostling as it hit a rut in the dirt road.

Startled, John braced his hands on the velour seat. "What—"

"Okay, stop sulking already," Rodney told him, putting the car in park. He opened his door and got out and walked over to John's side. "Go ahead, slide over – take her for a spin."

John sat up in his seat. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," Rodney said. "Now shove over before I change my mind. Watch the gearshift."

Without another word, John carefully slid over to the driver's seat and Rodney climbed into the passenger seat, hoping he wasn't making a really, really bad mistake. John carefully felt around the dashboard and the gearshift, getting a feel for the car, then eased it into drive. He started slowly, just letting the car coast, the tires crunching on the gravel.

"Okay, that's good," Rodney said nodding, holding one hand out, ready to grab the steering wheel at any moment. "Nice and slow… We're on a gravel road, with no cars or trees or anything that you can run into."

"Cool," John said with a faint smile. The car gradually picked up speed.

"_Slow,_ Sheppard."

"If there's nothing I can run into…"John said as he stepped on the gas a little harder and the car lurched forward. John's face took on that same expression as when he flew the jumpers – intense and focused. He kept the wheel straight, gradually picking up speed.

"Okay, maybe a little slower would be better," Rodney said as calmly as he could and took hold of the wheel. He pulled a little to the right when the car brushed up against a tall patch of grass. He kept one hand on the wheel as the car continued to pick up speed, jostling and bumping over the uneven terrain and Rodney's teeth snapped together when they ran over a large rock.

"Um, John… Gravel road, not the Indy 500, remember?"

John just grinned in reply, and gunned it. The wind rushed through Rodney's ears and he had to hold onto his hat to keep it from flying off his head. He was just about to yell at John to slow the hell down, or wrestle the wheel from him, when Rodney noticed the happy smile on his friend's face. John's hair whipped back from his forehead, they jounced down a slight decline, and he laughed and let out a whoop. Rodney gritted his teeth, kept one firm hand on the wheel and then, finally, there was a small scrub of bushes coming up ahead _really_ quickly, and the road denigrated into puddles and potholes. The car hit another rock, and Rodney tugged the wheel to his right again.

"Okay, end of the road, buddy," he squeaked out. "And I mean that literally."

John nodded and eased up on the gas, taking the car to a gentle stop. He sat still a moment, fingers flexing and unflexing on the steering wheel, a sad, pensive look on his face. Then he turned his head in Rodney's direction and smiled. "Thanks, McKay."

Rodney sagged back in his seat and returned John's smile. "Sure... yeah... anytime," he gasped and couldn't help a laugh. "That was almost as bad as the first time I flew a jumper."

John snickered and shook his head. _"Nothing_ is as bad as that."

Rodney directed John to turn the car around, and he drove back, slowly this time, to where they could reach the highway again. There, they switched places and for a long time, they drove with only the iPod's schizophrenic mix of music filling the open air.

"You know… I _am_ too tense," Rodney said quietly, almost to himself. "Always have been. I suck at vacations. Even when I was a kid. This one time, my parents took me and Jeannie on a trip to Disneyland, and I had such a bad allergic reaction to something I ate that we had to cut the trip short. Jeannie didn't speak to me for months – she thought I did it on purpose because I didn't like the rides and all those stupid cartoon characters running around all over the place. This other trip, I took a girlfriend camping – we took our time, stopping in Jasper and Banff and taking pictures of freaking _everything._ Now, you know how much I hate camping, but I wanted to her to think I was this manly outdoorsman. On the first night, I burned the shit out of my hand nearly falling into the campfire, I couldn't figure out how to pitch the tent, and then on the second day, I freaked on her when she lost my camera in the woods. I mean, I _really_ went at her and made her cry, too. And I didn't even care about the stupid camera – it was all those pictures we took – we'd never get that back, you know? She broke up with me two days after we got home."

John didn't say anything to that and so Rodney continued. "It's like a… a self-fulfilling prophecy or something. I'm always worried I won't have a good time and… sure enough…"

"You just think too much, that's all," John said. "Sometimes you just… need to go with the flow."

"I'm a scientist remember?" Rodney said, chuffing out a sardonic laugh. "I plan _everything,_ right down to the millisecond."

"Well… that's important, too," John said, and Rodney could tell that he was struggling to understand, to commiserate, but John had probably never really planned a thing in his life.

"That's what saved our asses lots of times on Atlantis," John added after a silent moment.

Rodney nodded, took a deep breath and for once, decided to plunge ahead without forethought. "Do you want to know what really happened to our new team leader?"

"Only if you want to tell me," John said, frowning a little and tilting his head in Rodney's direction.

And he did. Rodney told John the whole story – the all-out panic attack, the flashback, how Ronon had protected him from Hardy. He told John how, other than that mission and the exploration to the Ancient city, he hadn't been off-world since M3R-6P8. That he'd been too scared, or too burned out, or too something he hadn't quite figured out yet, to even contemplate the idea.

"I _still_ have nightmares about that room, you know," he said with a soft, derisive laugh.

"I do, too," John quietly admitted. "The explosion, being trapped, and feeling like I can't breathe, like I'm buried alive. Sometimes it's just the sound of that alarm in my head. Wakes me up sometimes."

"Really?" Rodney blinked at his friend, both surprised and strangely relieved that it wasn't just him, that he wasn't coming completely unraveled. "I… I wasn't sure how much you remembered."

"I remember enough…." John said, trailing off for a moment. "You can't just shrug something like that off."

"I know that," Rodney said. "But… it's been five months and I… I still haven't figured out how to move on, how to get past it."

"That's because you haven't _let_ yourself move on," John said. "Things are different now, Rodney. Whether you like it, or not."

"Well, I _don't_ like it, and I don't _want_ things to be different," Rodney told him, realizing that he sounded petulant, childish even, but it was the truth of the matter.

"I know," John said in gentle voice, and somehow, he did seem to understand. "And _that's_ why you need this break, so badly. Get a little distance from everything. Get a little perspective. Forgot for a while." He reached over, found Rodney's arm and gave him an affectionate slap. "So come on, relax, stop thinking so damn much and have some fun. I promise it won't kill you. It won't even hurt."

Rodney took another deep breath, and the road in front of him suddenly looked a little watery. He swiped his hand over his eyes. "Okay, fine. I'll try."

"Okay."

They rolled into Ventura at around 8:30pm. Rodney found their oceanfront hotel easily enough, and he was glad he'd insisted on reserving a room instead of going with John's 'let's just wing it and see where we wind up' attitude.

Gathering up their bags, Rodney led John into the lobby, John's fingers loosely clasped around Rodney's wrist until they reached reception. As Rodney checked in, the clerk, as nonchalant as you please, asked if they wanted a queen or king-sized bed.

"_Excuse_ me?" Rodney blurted in a very unmanly indignant squawk, and John choked back a laugh. "Listen, I reserved a _suite,"_ Rodney snapped, pointing at the idiot clerk, "as in _two_ separate bedrooms and _two_ very, very separate beds."

The young man frowned, confused, looking back and forth at the two of them and then he noticed John's cane, dangling loose from his fingertips. He looked at John's face and the dark sunglasses he wore even in the dim lobby.

"Oh… I apologize, sir," he said blushing furiously. "Uh… sirs. Unfortunately, it looks like we've overbooked, and all the suites are taken. Perhaps you would like two single rooms? Or I do have a room with two double beds that faces the ocean."

"We'll take the doubles," John said, taking pity on the kid.

The room turned out not to be anything fancy, but it still beat the hell out of some of the accommodations they'd had to endure off-world. And besides, Rodney and John had slept in much closer proximity than this before, but still… Rodney bristled over the clerk's mistake.

"I can't believe he thought we were a _couple,_ for Christ's sakes."

John flopped down on the bed with a contented sigh. "Well, I _was_ holding onto your arm, sweetheart."

"Oh, shut up, honey," Rodney shot back. "Still… do I _look_ like a gay man?"

"You're asking the wrong guy, here."

"Oh, come on," Rodney groused. "You know what I look like."

"McKay, most gay men don't even _look_ gay, so relax."

"Yeah, right, you're right. That's true." Rodney waved his hands impatient with himself. "So what about dinner? I'm starving."

"Again?" John said incredulous, rolling onto his belly and stretching out. "I bet you've gained like 50 pounds since I was last able to see you," he muttered into the pillow.

"I have _not," _Rodney protested, indignant. In truth, it was more like ten pounds, but there was no way in hell he'd ever admit that to Surfer Boy over there.

After dinner and a couple of drinks on a beachfront patio, they took a walk along the beach, stretching their legs. John smiled a little when he heard the crash of the waves, and took a deep breath of the salty air. The sand was too soft for him to navigate his way with his cane, and so he held onto Rodney's arm as they walked, keeping his shades on even though the sun had long since gone down. He was probably doing it more for Rodney's benefit than his own – making sure they wouldn't get mistaken for lovebirds again, although none of the eclectic sorts milling around even gave them a second glance.

By the time they got back to their room, Rodney was more than ready to hit the sack. After he'd finished brushing his teeth, he stepped out of the bathroom to hear a mechanical voice chanting down the hours and for a moment, just a brief, tiny moment, Rodney thought of that damn room again. His heart even skipped a couple of beats. Then he realized that the voice was coming from John's watch.

"What the hell are you doing?"

John fumbled with the watch some more, then set it down beside him on the nightstand. "Was just setting the alarm."

"Uh, I thought we were on _vacation."_

"We _are,"_ John assured him, nodding. "But I want to hit the beach early. It'll be less crowded. Less people to run into in the water."

Rodney stared at his friend, at his unfocused hazel eyes. He wondered how the hell John thought he was going to be able to surf without seeing where the waves were coming from, but Rodney didn't have the heart to point out the fact. Tomorrow was another day for cold, hard realities, and with any luck, they'd be heading back for Colorado the day after.

Tomorrow came far earlier than Rodney was prepared for. John's stupid talking watch woke them up at precisely 5:30am, and Rodney couldn't resist throwing his pillow at it, eliciting a startled yelp from John, who he may or may not have inadvertently hit.

By the time they hit Surfer's Point, the sun was fully up, but the air was still chilled from the night. Rodney had mortified John by insisting on buying him a life vest, and making him wear it. Like hell Rodney was going to haul his drowning ass out of the water every five minutes. John started slowly, in shallow water, just paddling around on his surfboard, seeming to enjoy the bob of the waves. Then he graduated to carefully standing up on the board, knees bent, hands held out in front of him and allowing the waves to gently push him back to shore. Rodney sat on his towel at the edge of the water, reading his Wired magazine with one eye, and keeping the other eye on John like an overprotective parent.

It didn't take long until the temperature shot up, unseasonably high. Slathered in layers of sunscreen, squishing his toes in the wet sand, the warm sun shining down on him and the rush of the waves all around him, to his surprise, Rodney found that he was enjoying himself a little.

Looking around at the families, teenagers and 20-something college kids, Rodney began to reacquaint himself with his home world. It began to feel real again. When he looked back to the sea, he noticed that John was sitting up on his board, chatting with someone… someone _hot._ In her late twenties, early thirties, maybe, she was wearing one of those short-sleeved, cut-off, skin-tight wetsuits, her hair long, dark, and slicked back from her forehead, skin tanned to a golden brown, and that was just typical of Sheppard. Even blind, wearing a neon-orange life vest and board shorts two sizes too big for him, the guy was still a chick magnet. From the way she was waving her arm, it looked as though she was telling him the directions of the waves. John said something in reply, then climbed back to his feet. He rode the board, zigzagging through the waves, surprisingly assured and graceful, then veered a little too far to the left and did a nose-dive.

Rodney sat up straighter, but the girl was already paddling over on her own board to his rescue. John came up laughing and she grabbed his arm, then his board and steered him towards it. He wrapped one arm over the board and clambered back on it. She slid over and climbed on behind him, holding onto his waist and they both stood, balancing, laughing, and managed to cruise a wave for a few seconds before flipping into the water. They tried it a few more times, and after that, the two seemed to content to chat, bobbing up and down on their boards. Shaking his head, Rodney went back to his magazine.

He looked up as a shadow fell across his page and then scowled in irritation when water droplets spattered on it. John and his new friend were standing over him.

"Oh, hey," Rodney said quickly, getting to his feet.

"Are you Rodney?" the girl said smiling and hanging onto John's arm.

"That's me," Rodney said, grinning, and she was just as hot this close up.

"I thought so," she said nodding. "John said to look out for a 'geeky looking guy, probably wearing a T-shirt and a stupid hat,' so I figured…"

Rodney snatched off his hat, ruffled his hair, and glared uselessly at John. Then the young woman smiled so dazzlingly at him that he completely forgot about the geeky comment.

"I'm Brooke," she said holding out her hand.

"Of course you are," Rodney said, taking her hand.

"Brooke's a dental hygienist from Fresno," John informed him.

"She is?" Rodney frowned. None of his dentists ever had assistants who looked like _that. _"Umm, it must be… fascinating work."

Brooke giggled. "Not really. Some people have _terrible_ oral hygiene." She looked over Rodney's shoulder and waved to someone. Rodney followed her gaze to see another young woman, probably in her early thirties heading in their direction.

"My friend Penny and I decided to take a few days off to celebrate her birthday," Brooke explained. "Penny, this is John and Rodney," Brooke said as soon as the other woman stepped up to them. Penny wasn't as hot, but she was definitely cute in a girl next door kind way.

"Hi John and Rodney," she said, smiling with vague interest at Rodney.

After a few more pleasantries, Brooke explained that she and Penny had some serious shopping to do, but would they like to meet for a drink later? Before Rodney could open his mouth, John told her that they would love to and suggested the same patioed bar that he and Rodney had been to the night before. Brooke happily agreed and flashed them both that brilliant smile.

As they walked off, speaking loud enough for half the beach to overhear, Brooke informed Penny that John had lost his sight in 'the line of duty,' and wasn't that just _tragic?_ Rodney looked over at John to see his reaction to that, but his friend didn't seem to mind his disability seemingly appealing to every one of the young woman's Nightingale instincts.

That evening, Rodney drank far too much for his out of practice system. Brooke plastered herself to Sheppard's side, laughing too loudly at everything he said, fussing over him in a way that Rodney knew his friend hated, and consuming an alarming amount of alcohol for one so tiny. Penny turned out to be a social worker, and had some surprisingly entertaining stories about her job. Rodney found himself laughing more than he had in a long time. She was funny, charming, had the big blue eyes that Rodney was always a sucker for, and she was definitely interested in him.

But some two or three hours later, when Brooke suggested that they all go for a walk on the beach, Rodney declined, saying that he was getting pretty tired.

"I guess I'm just not used to all this sunshine," he said, shrugging apologetically. "I think I'll call it a night after this one." He held up his nearly empty beer glass.

"Yeah, me, too," John said with a casual shrug, but Rodney knew his friend well enough to detect the gratitude in his voice. "It _has_ been a pleasure though," John added, patting Brooke's hand that was resting lightly on his knee.

They finished their drinks, and as Brooke stood up, she leaned over, a little wobbly, placed her hand on John's shoulder and planted a sloppy kiss on the corner of his mouth. "You're so brave," she said almost tearfully. Penny looked a little disappointed as she said goodbye, and Rodney watched as the two stepped onto the beach and headed into the moonlight.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Rodney couldn't hold it in anymore and snickered. "Ohhh, John," he moaned, clutching his hands to his heart. "You're sooo brave."

John just smiled and shrugged, looking almost as drunk as Rodney felt. "Penny was totally interested, you know."

"Yeah." Rodney smiled. "I know."

"So… you could have—"

"I'm seeing Katie, remember?" Rodney pointed out.

John frowned and started peeling off the label on his beer bottle. "You really like her, don't you?"

Rodney ducked his head, blushing. "Yeah… I do."

"That's… that's great, Rodney," John said, surprised. "Really."

Rodney nodded, watching the waves in the distance. "I… I'm just not sure where it's going, you know?" he said, the alcohol loosening his tongue. "This may come as a surprise to you, but I… haven't had a lot of serious relationships. Keep messing them up."

"You don't say…" John drawled and smiled.

"I'm serious, John," Rodney scowled. "I really, really don't want to mess this one up."

John sat up a little straighter in his chair and very carefully placed his bottle on the table. He nearly missed and Rodney quickly grabbed it before it could crash the to concrete.

"Well… just be yourself," John said, then thought a moment. "No, wait. Not _totally_ yourself. Be on your best behavior. Let her talk once in a while, and do nice things for her sometimes."

"Okay," Rodney said, nodding eagerly and taking mental notes. "Nice things like what?"

John shrugged. "I don't know. Make her dinner. Watch a sunset together. Or hey, why don't you buy her something while we're here?"

"Yeah?" Rodney hadn't even thought of that. "Yeah! What should I buy her?"

"I don't know," John said, blinking tiredly. "What does she like?"

Rodney had to think a moment. "Umm… plants."

"Buy her a necklace," John said with rapidly diminishing patience and rubbing his eyes.

"Okay, yes, necklaces are good," Rodney agreed. "Women love jewelry. Excellent. Anything else?"

"Just take it slow," John instructed, "but go for it with Katie, she's… nice."

"Nice," Rodney echoed.

"_Very_ nice," John amended, "and I mean that in a good way. She'd _have_ to be nice to put up with you."

Rodney leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, she _is_ nice." He smiled as he thought of Katie and the way she always looked at him. Like he was the most important thing in the world at that very moment. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sea air. His limbs felt heavy and pleasantly relaxed. He allowed his mind to quiet for once, and a strange sensation washed over him. It took a moment for him to realize what it was. He felt content.

"You know what?" He looked at John. "This was a good idea."

John smiled drowsily. "Told you so."

They stayed another day and spent the afternoon on San Buenaventura, and John was right, it _was_ a pretty beach. Rodney even ventured into the water a little, and John was content to stretch out on his belly across his board and lazily drift on the waves.

The next morning, on the drive back to Reno, both of them were a little sunburned, waterlogged and Rodney felt more relaxed than he'd been in years. Just as they passed the state line back into Nevada, John sat up a little straighter in his seat and raked a hand through his hair.

"Okay, I'll go," he said so suddenly that Rodney had no idea what he was talking about.

"Go where?"

"Where do you think?" John said almost impatiently. "Atlantis, remember?"

Rodney blinked and it took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, he couldn't help a huge grin and silently pumped his fist in the air. _Yes!_ But to John, he simply said, "Good. Took you long enough."

"Just to activate your chair and find your ZPM," John added quietly, folding his hands in his lap.

"Ah, we'll work out a way for you to stay," Rodney said, waving his hand. "Don't worry about that. I'll make you part of my science team if I have to."

John shook his head. "Rodney, I'll find your ZPM, activate whatever needs activating, and then I'm coming back home."

Rodney couldn't help a twinge at John no longer referring to Atlantis as his home, but at the same, he couldn't really blame him, could he? "Why don't you wait and see how you feel once you're back there?" Rodney still suggested.

John took a deep breath and seemed to consider his words before speaking again. "Rodney, I've spent most of my adult life as a pilot and a soldier. That's who I _was,_ but I'm not that guy anymore," he said, shaking his head again. "Before I got sent back here, Teyla told me something about not allowing my blindness to define me. But it _has._ It took away everything, and I had nothing left. I don't want it to be like that anymore – I'm starting to get it together here, with my dad, and Dana, and I'm getting better at finding my way around on my own. I can't do that on Atlantis."

"Yes you can," Rodney corrected. "There are _plenty_ of things you can still do on Atlantis."

"Like what?" John said with a wry smile. "You'll call me out to play once in a while, or whenever you need me to turn something on?" He waved his hand in front of his chest. "This… this freak Ancient gene is what got me there the first time, but I proved myself to everyone. I _earned_ my title and my place in the city. But now… I can't stay on Atlantis just because of a stupid gene, or because you feel sorry for me. I want to be there on my own merit, doing my job, or not at all."

"John—"

"Can you understand that, Rodney?" John said, sitting very still, shoulders tensed.

Rodney took breath, watched the road rushing past them a moment. "Yeah, I can…" he finally said, because a part of him realized the truth in John's words. "I do understand."

He didn't know what to say after that. Maybe there wasn't anything left to say, and they wound up driving in silence. John reached over and cranked the music, but it did nothing to drown out Rodney's thoughts. He tried to convince himself that once John was back, once he realized how much he'd missed Atlantis, he'd change his mind, but at the same time, he didn't really believe it. He was also surprised to find that he could accept John's decision, either way.

Once they got back to William's house, Rodney booked a flight to Colorado, leaving at 10:00am the next morning. John and his dad had a long talk in the kitchen, while Rodney channel-surfed in the living room. Later, he overheard John cancelling his appointments with Dana for the next two weeks, which was as long he was prepared to stay, Rodney supposed.

That night, Rodney crashed on the couch again, but he didn't sleep well, his mind once again overactive, his thoughts churning too much to grant him any rest.

Early the next morning, as they walked to the car, John carrying his duffle bag draped over his shoulder, William followed them down the drive. In an odd reversal of five months ago, William watched as Rodney threw John's bag in the trunk. When Rodney slammed the trunk shut, John flinched a little, just as he'd done back then. John shuffled his feet on the pavement, uncertain.

"Well, I guess I'll be back in a couple of weeks, dad," he said, holding out his hand.

Without hesitation, William took hold of John's hand, tightly grasping his fingers, then surprised his son by wrapping his arm over his shoulder and quickly pulling him close. William self-consciously ruffled the hair on the nape of John's neck before releasing him almost as quickly.

"You be careful, you hear?" William said, his eyes bright with barely suppressed tears, his voice thick with emotion and worry.

John bit his lip and tried to smooth down his hair. "I… I will."

"I promise he'll be in good hands, General," Rodney assured the older man, and held out his own hand, which the general clasped, in his firm grip. He nodded at Rodney and held his gaze a long moment, as though holding him to his promise.

William watched as they pulled out, and Rodney could see him still standing on the driveway as he rounded the corner. John kept his head turned toward the passenger window, hiding his face, hiding his emotions.

"Hey, it's gonna be great," Rodney told him, trying to reassure him.

"Yeah," John said almost too softly for Rodney to hear. He pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. "One last hurrah."

* * *

--tbc--


	10. Chapter 8

Oy, so sorry about the long delay, as usual. I guess I just have to fess up that I'm a tremendously slow and fretful writer, and real life has been a mind-sucking, morale-sapping bugger lately, but finally, here's the next chapter! Yay for me for finishing it! And yes, John and I have the same taste in tunes - obviously, we're perfect for each other.

Sooo... for better or for worse, yippeekiyay, here we go:

* * *

John took a deep breath as he and Rodney stepped onto the ramp in the SGC gateroom, their footsteps clanking on the metal. The loud drone of the waiting, open wormhole filled John's ears, the ramp vibrated a little beneath his boots, and he couldn't help it, he faltered, his heart suddenly racing. He wasn't sure if he could do this.

Standing on the ramp, paralyzed with fear, John felt almost as disoriented as when he'd first lost his sight. From the moment they left William's house, John had found himself wishing that he'd never agreed to this. From there on, it had only gotten worse. The crowded, noisy airport had been an exercise in endurance; the flight itself had seemed endless. Once in Colorado, a driver had picked them up at the airport, and during the ride to the base, John couldn't summon the energy to respond much to Rodney's continual and stilted attempts at small talk.

As soon as they'd stepped into the elevator taking them down and down into the SGC, John had to fight off a wave of uncharacteristic claustrophobia. The tumult of unfamiliar sounds and voices as they'd negotiated the black maze of left and right turns had him hanging onto Rodney with something bordering on desperation. The multiple documents he was later read aloud and directed to sign had John's head aching and buzzing with confusion and too much information.

Even though he had every intention of making his visit to the Pegasus galaxy a short one, John hadn't expected it to be so difficult to leave behind the new life he'd worked so hard to accept. Everything in William's home had become so comfortingly familiar, he could easily find his way around without fear, and it shocked him to realize how deeply he'd come to rely on and trust in his dad's constant presence.

When John had first told William that he'd agreed to do some consulting work at his former outpost, his dad hadn't been happy, and had told him as much. In fact, William had been downright skeptical – _what the hell kind of consulting would they expect _you_ to do?_ he'd asked, perplexed. A few months ago, a question like that from his father would have thoroughly pissed John off, but now, he could easily see William's point. After all, what sort of consulting work _could_ a blind former pilot possibly do? But it was the only explanation that John could come up with. William had even calmly tried to talk John out of it, tried to convince him that the last thing he needed right now was to have to reorient himself to different surroundings. Dana had said pretty much the same thing when John had called her to cancel his appointments, and judging by how messed up he was feeling now, John was inclined to agree with both of them. 

Perhaps, William even suspected that he wasn't coming back, because John couldn't remember the last time his dad had hugged him – not since he was a little kid, he was fairly certain of that. William's worry and uncharacteristic affection had made leaving that much harder, and worse, had made John further doubt his decision. But then again, Rodney hadn't really given him much of a choice, had he?

"Hey, Sheppard?" Rodney said, snapping his fingers to get his attention. "You okay?"

With a start, John realized what he must look like to his friend, to everyone in the control room – frozen dead in his tracks, his fingers had slipped from Rodney's wrist and his arms hung slack by his sides. A sheen of sweat prickled his brow and upper lip, and he found himself breathing a little too rapidly.

"I'm fine," he quickly said, and tried for a casual shrug and smirk. "Guess I'm just out of practice." He swiped his arm over his face, took another deep breath and summoned his courage. When he reached out for Rodney's wrist again, he was surprised when Rodney instead linked his arm, holding tight and stepping close to his side.

"Humor me," Rodney said by way of explanation. "You ready?"

Though he felt anything but ready, John nodded, and before any further second thoughts could seize hold, he took the first steps forward, his arm jerking behind him until Rodney caught up.

They stepped through the wormhole; there was that cold abyss, that exhilarating sensation of rushing weightlessness, and then John's feet hit solid ground, his head spinning. Rodney kept firm hold of his arm as he stumbled, pressing his other hand against John's chest, helping him regain his footing. John nodded in thanks, grateful for his friend's foresight.

John held still a moment, and once he regained his equilibrium, the first thing that struck him was the distinctive scent to the air – metal, ozone and the faint, but acrid tang of brine.

He loosened his arm from Rodney's tight grip, and there it was; that familiar, gentle thrumming already beginning to course through his veins, to rush along his nerve endings. The best rush in any world. Then there was the faint hum that wasn't so much something he heard, but felt, filling his head, distantly singing to him. Atlantis herself. It was strange, he'd almost forgotten those amazing sensations, but just like the first time he'd set foot in the city, it felt somehow right, as though something he wasn't aware he was missing had suddenly been returned.

He waited expectantly at the sound of footsteps and then a familiar voice. "Welcome back, John."

_Elizabeth._ He shuffled his feet and smiled shyly because he had no idea how she truly felt about him being here. "Thanks, it's good to be back," he said, although he wasn't entirely sure of that, either.

Elizabeth very lightly placed her hands on his shoulders and then warmly embraced him, betraying none of the reluctance Rodney had mentioned. As she released him, she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and John knew that everything was okay between them.

There was another clatter of footsteps, and Teyla and Ronon greeted him in cheerful unison.

"Hey guys." John grinned at their enthusiasm.

"It is so good to see you, John," Teyla said, a smile in her voice. "You look well." Without hesitation, she pressed up against him, stood on tiptoe to reach, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, like she'd always done. He carefully returned her embrace, his eyes burning, his throat tightening. He hadn't realized how terribly he'd missed her. As Teyla stepped back from him, he pressed his lips tight together, held his breath a moment and tried to hold it together.

Then a strong hand gripped his arm and yanked him forward.

"Man, have I _ever_ missed you, buddy," Ronon declared in his happy growl. Strong arms grabbed John in a fierce bear hug, then hoisted him off his feet. John yelped in surprise, the breath squeezed from his lungs.

"Hey, take it easy, you Neanderthal!" Rodney protested, "don't kill him the second he steps through the gate!"

Ronon only shifted his grip and spun John around in a half circle, and John laughed, because all at once, it _was_ good to be back. Ronon set him back down again, gently this time, keeping his big hands on John's upper arms to steady him.

John grinned and lightly punched his friend's rock-hard abs. "I missed you, too, Chewie."

"It has been _unbelievably_ boring around here without you," Ronon told him, leaning conspiratorially close, his breath puffing against John's ear.

"So I've heard," John whispered back, quirking an eyebrow. "Looks like I got here just in time to whip you guys back into shape."

There was a moment where none of them knew what to do next, and John was grateful when Rodney touched his shoulder, suggesting that they drop off their bags in their respective quarters. They decided to meet up with Ronon, Teyla and Elizabeth in commissary afterward. John took hold of Rodney's arm, allowing his friend to lead him down the corridors. He hadn't used his cane once since they'd hit the airport, and John could all but hear Dana giving him shit over that – _you can't rely on others all the time, bud._ Although, he'd like to see _her_ try to get around, sightless, in a whole other galaxy.

Even still, he drew on some of her lessons and tried to re-familiarize himself with his surroundings as they walked, counting his steps and reaching out to run his hand along the walls. Rodney immediately shifted over when John couldn't quite reach, and as his fingertips brushed along the columns and windowpanes, it didn't feel like they were heading for his old quarters. It seemed much too far, but then again, it _had_ been a long time…

"What level are we on?" he asked, trying to orient himself.

"Oh, Caldwell's taken over your old quarters," Rodney quickly explained, "so we set you up someplace else."

"Caldwell?" John said, surprised. _"Caldwell's_ in charge of military operations now?"

"Yeah," Rodney replied almost apologetically.

John scowled a little at that and continued walking alongside Rodney. He should have expected as much, he supposed. After all, Caldwell had been itching to take John's place ever since his nasty run-in with that Wraith retrovirus.

"So here we are," Rodney said with flourish as he stopped to wave open a door. "You're actually two doors down to the left from my quarters, you know, just in case you need anything…"

"Of course," John said with a sardonic smile – Rodney was back to the babysitting already. As they stepped inside, Rodney reached for the shoulder strap of John's bag.

"Here – I'll give you a hand unpacking."

"No, I got it," John protested, keeping a firm grip on the strap. "Just show me where the drawers are."

Rodney did as John asked, and as he unpacked the few clothes and personal items he'd brought along, Rodney chattered nonstop, offering constant reassurances and John couldn't help a surge of irritation at that.

They headed for the commissary right after Rodney dropped off his own bag. Situating John at the table with Elizabeth, Ronon and Teyla, Rodney rushed off to get him a cup of coffee without bothering to ask if he even wanted one.

Teyla was just asking John how he was feeling about being back when Rodney rushed back seemingly a few seconds later.

"Coffee," he said a little breathlessly, placing a mug almost in John's hand and then there was the thump of something being placed in front of him. "And your favorite – crackberry pie."

"Thanks, McKay," John said tightly, and if Rodney didn't stop fussing and fretting over him anytime soon, John was going to yell at him, or hit him. Even though he didn't really feel like eating anything, John felt around until he found a fork and speared off a piece of the pie made from berries indigenous to the mainland. Taking a bite, he was pleased to find that it tasted as good and as addictive as he remembered – both tart and wonderfully sweet, living up to the name with which he had personally christened it.

"So, I imagine you're most curious about this mission, John," Elizabeth said a little too brightly and touching his wrist. "We'll have a briefing later but if you have any questions—"

"Elizabeth," Rodney interrupted, "the man just got here, give him a minute to at least eat his pie before you start the shop talk. We can talk about all that stuff later."

Then resulting silence was absolute, and without being able to see his friends' expressions, John wasn't sure if everyone was stunned by Rodney's sudden lack of interest in the mission, or his blatantly condescending tone.

John cleared his throat and shifted on his chair. "Well, to be honest, McKay, I'm kinda surprised we're even sitting here. I'd figured you'd have me all suited up and shoving me into a jumper by now," he said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Ahh, we got lots of time for that," Rodney said happily and almost dismissively. "So this is good, isn't it? Our usual table, your favorite pie, the old gang – everyone together again. Let's just sit back and… savor the moment."

John paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, and he could all but imagine the smug, satisfied look on Rodney's face. He began to wonder if his friend had taken their chill-out vacation a little too much to heart. Or maybe, John thought, sudden suspicion filling him, maybe Rodney had been greatly exaggerating the level of technology in this abandoned city just to get John to agree to come back here. Maybe the mission would take all of two hours to complete and once that happened, there would be no more excuses in keeping him here.

If that turned out to be the case, John was seriously going to kick McKay's ass. For the time being though, he let it go and enjoyed the rest of his snack. He sat back and listened as everyone chatted around him, eager to get him caught up on the latest news and gossip going on in the city, talking of people John no longer entirely recalled. Again, he couldn't help the odd feeling that the world had passed him by, as though he was dissociated from it all. As his friends continued to talk and laugh around him, no one seemed to notice that he didn't contribute much to the conversation, for which he was grateful.

They did talk of the mission later on, Elizabeth conducting a short briefing where Colonel Caldwell and Major Lorne met them in the conference room. Every time Caldwell spoke, when he gave all his orders to Lorne, or when he all but dismissed John for the civilian 'consultant' that he now was, John couldn't suppress his bitter resentment. At the very least, the briefing did put his suspicions about Rodney's motives to rest – from the intel that Rodney had documented, and from Lorne's own comments, the abandoned city _did_ sound impressive. It was decided that they'd head out first thing in the morning, with Lorne piloting the jumper, and with that, the meeting was over.

As they made their way from the room, Caldwell stepped close beside John, surprising him.

"Good luck, Sheppard, and I know it's probably pointless to say this, but be careful out there," the colonel said, his words softened by what John could have sworn was fondness.

After dinner in the commissary, John's team was reluctant to call it a night, and so they'd made their way to John's new quarters. John sat on his bed, his legs stretched out, with Teyla sitting cross-legged and close beside him. Ronon and Rodney perched on chairs, resting their feet on the end of the bed.

As though John had only been gone a week instead of over five months, they easily slipped back into their old, easy banter. Teyla and Ronon swapped stories about their trainees – some of them were so unskilled that they were better off relying on their Earth weapons, Teyla told John with such seriousness that he and Ronon burst into helpless laughter. To which Rodney sighed and commented that his alien teammates were in serious danger of becoming hopeless, mindless savages if they didn't start getting out of the training room more often, earning himself a smack on the head from Ronon. For a short while things almost felt back to normal. Almost.

When John rubbed his burning eyes and couldn't hold back a jaw-cracking yawn, Teyla twined her fingers with his and squeezed his hand.

"We should let you get some rest now, John," she said, her other hand resting on his leg. "After all, we do have an early start tomorrow."

"Sorry," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "Guess it's just been a long day."

"Yes, it _has,"_ Rodney agreed, "you probably have some serious gatelag going on."

There was the clatter of a chair being pushed back. "Get some sleep, buddy," Ronon told him, unintentionally clapping John on the shoulder hard enough that his teeth snapped together.

"Yes, we will see you in the morning, John," Teyla said, still holding his hand. When she stood, John needed to hold onto her hand for a moment longer, then reluctantly slid his fingers free. He'd missed all of them so much. He'd missed all of _this_ – far more than he'd ever suspected. He didn't allow himself to think of how hard it would be to leave them again.

"'Night guys," he said, trying for a casual smile and a sloppy salute.

John heard the doors whoosh open and close behind them. Rodney sat back down in his chair, and the bed jostled when he propped his feet at the end again.

"So, hey, there's nothing to be nervous about tomorrow," he said, his voice deliberately casual. "Compared to most of our missions, this'll be a cake walk."

"Hey, be _careful_ saying something like that…" John cautioned, then superstitiously rapped his knuckles on the wood veneer of the nightstand. He sat up a little, shoved the pillow to a more comfortable position behind his back. "And who says I'm nervous?"

"No one," Rodney quickly said. "I'm just trying to offer a few words of encouragement, that's all. Like you said, you're out of practice."

"I'll be fine," John said, folding his hands behind his head. He didn't want to talk about the mission. If he thought things through too much, he _would_ get nervous all over again, and being skittish off-world was never a good thing. He just wanted to wing it, to get this whole thing over with, and do it with as little fuss as possible. "So… I really _am_ pretty tired, McKay," he said, shrugging apologetically.

"Oh. Right." Rodney sounded both surprised and a little offended. "I, uh… I arranged everything in the bathroom for you… and I'll just… go now." He dropped his feet to the floor and shoved his chair back. "Call me if you need anything, okay? It doesn't matter how late it is."

"Okay," John said, and Rodney's footsteps moved away from him. "Umm, Rodney?"

The footsteps immediately halted. "Yeah?"

John licked his lips, uncertain what he'd wanted to say, or why he'd even called Rodney back in the first place. "Going off-world like this… it'll be kind of… strange," he said without thinking, the helpless admission seemingly coming forth on its own accord.

There was a pause. "I know," Rodney said after a moment, his voice both surprisingly gentle and a little worried. "But hey, we'll watch out for you. Probably drive you nuts while we're at it."

John forced back a cynical laugh at Rodney's attempted reassurance, because that was part of the problem, wasn't it? That was one of the many reasons John hadn't wanted to do this in the first place. _He_ had always been the one in charge, the one responsible for looking out for everyone. He wasn't entirely sure if he could handle being so reliant, so helpless under his team's care.

"Yeah… I know you will. Like you said, it'll be great," he finally answered, forcing a note of optimism to his voice, knowing that Rodney was waiting for a reassurance of his own.

"Absolutely," Rodney said.

John smiled a little at that and hoped that Rodney would be right. Besides, it was far too late to turn back now, and so he silently ordered himself to buck the hell up already, to trust in his friend and trust in his team that everything would be okay. He could do this. "Let me get some sleep now, will ya?"

"Right," Rodney said, sounding greatly relieved. "Goodnight, John-boy."

"'Night, Meredith," John smirked, throwing his extra pillow in his friend's direction. He jumped and barely managed to hold back a surprised yelp when the pillow lightly smacked him in the chest a moment later. Then he heard the whoosh of the doors opening and closing and Rodney was gone.

John shifted lower in the bed and for the first time since he'd set foot back in the city, he was alone. In the sudden quiet, he could hear Atlantis humming all around him, and it should have been soothing, but instead, it somehow made him feel strangely adrift, lost even. Listening to the quiet hum, he closed his eyes and decided that he'd rest for just a moment before getting up to brush his teeth and get undressed.

Instead, sleep quickly stole over him, catching him unaware, and he woke hours later when the pressure on his bladder became too great to ignore. Sitting up, he reached for his cane, which he'd propped against the headboard. His fingers brushed against it, and he cursed when it slipped from his grasp and hit the floor with a light, rolling clatter.

"Fuck it," he muttered, irritated, and decided to find his way to the bathroom without it. He slid to his feet, shuffled forward, holding out his hands until he reached a wall. Sliding one hand along the wall, the other held out in front of him, he found the bathroom by painfully bashing his toes against the door before it obediently opened for him. He relieved his bladder then found the toothpaste, his toothbrush and a cup sitting right along the sink, exactly the way Rodney had arranged it for him those first few weeks after his accident. John brushed his teeth, splashed some warm water on his face then carefully made his way back to the main room. He was doing fine until he stepped on something round and narrow – his cane, he realized, as his foot skidded out from under him. He pinwheeled his arms, managing to right himself and found the bed by nearly falling onto it, and _dammit,_ he knew better than to leave it on the floor like that.

His heart pounding, John pulled off his shirt and pants and shoved them under the bed so that he wouldn't trip over them in the morning. He slid into bed in his boxers, the sheets smooth and cool against his bare skin. Settling against the pillow, and arranging the blankets over him, he found that he was suddenly and fully awake. Frustrated, he blew out a deep breath and tore a hand through his hair. Atlantis hummed and hummed, his toes ached a little, and his thoughts began to race. He couldn't stop trying to imagine what the Ancient city would be like, what he'd encounter there. When those thoughts only heightened his nervousness, he took slow, deep breaths, tried to quiet his thoughts, tried to think of flying over the green-white glaciers at McMurdo, picturing that perfect blue sky in his mind, but it didn't work the way it usually did.

Finally, he reached over for his iPod on the nightstand and set the volume low. He'd listened to all of Radiohead's _OK Computer_, Johnny Cash's _Ragged Old Flag_ and was halfway through Pink Floyd's _Dark Side of the Moon _when he finally drifted into a restless sleep. Instead of dreaming of the Antarctica, he was plagued by nightmares of Wraiths, explosions, and a droning alarm, going on and on and on in absolute darkness.

---A---

The next morning, sitting in the back of the jumper with Teyla close beside him, John was surprised to feel that cautious excitement he always experienced during a mission rushing through him. His heart was beating a little too quickly, and the gentle motion of the jumper felt strange, as though they weren't really moving at all, and he wished he could see the stars rushing by them for proof that he was actually doing this, going off-world again.

"Ease up on the thruster," he called to Lorne when he felt the craft tip a little to the left.

"No problem, sir," Lorne replied.

"Sheppard, _please_ don't ask if you can fly," Rodney said in a pained voice from the co-pilot's seat.

"Why not?" Ronon answered for John, perched on the bench across from him. "We're in wide-open space, McKay. What's he gonna hit?"

"Yeah, Rodney, it's not like I can crash into a star, or anything," John added.

"Ignoring you!" Rodney shot back, and both John and Ronon snickered at that.

In truth, even if his team _would_ let him fly, what with how the jumpers responded to his every thought and visual command, John suspected that he'd wind up sending them into a crash and burn tailspin.

The trip took a surprisingly short amount of time, and John had to admit that Lorne brought them down to a feather-light landing. Teyla took John's hand, led him to the open hatch of the jumper and outside. Stepping onto soft, springy ground, John paused a moment. The cool, damp air smelled like moss and wet foliage. The wind was so chilled that he shivered despite the layers of clothing he was dressed in.

Ronon took the lead, Lorne their six, with Rodney on John's other side. Teyla tried to describe their surroundings to John as they walked – the remarkable resemblance to Atlantis and the elaborate but damaged, moss-covered buildings. The nearly overgrown walkways where the land tried to reclaim its rightful place, rendering the city more of a mythical fable than reality. John nodded in the appropriate places, but found himself much too distracted by his nervous anticipation to pay full attention.

Teyla paused and directed him to take one step up, and their footsteps echoed as they stepped inside a building. It was only marginally warmer inside, and there were more echoing footsteps as the rest of his team moved around, the sounds over-amplified in John's ears, disorienting him. The place seemed vast, cavernous, and he unconsciously stepped a little closer to Teyla.

He jumped when he heard something grinding along the floor and then Rodney's pissed-off voice.

"Ah, shit," he groused. "I didn't think about this part."

"What?" John said, tensing.

"The shaft," Rodney said, and when John shook his head in confusion, Rodney explained further. "I forgot to mention, there's a shaft over here with a ladder that you have to climb down to reach the facility."

"No problem," Major Lorne said, and John heard a clinking of metal. "I brought a harness rig – we can lower him down."

"Good thinking," Rodney said, his voice brightening, "that'll definitely work."

"Guys," John piped up. "I _am_ perfectly capable of climbing a ladder, you know."

"No offense, sir," Lorne said, "but it's a narrow shaft and the steps are wide apart. We can't chance you falling. It's a long way down."

John cursed under his breath, and this was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid, being rendered incapable of keeping up with everyone. Scowling, he weighed his options and decided that there was no way in hell he was going to be tricked out in a harness like some pathetic invalid.

"First of all, Major," he told Lorne, "you don't have to call me 'sir' anymore."

"Sorry, sir, force of habit," Lorne immediately replied, then corrected himself. "I mean…"

"Never mind." John waved a dismissive hand. "And second, I can _handle_ the ladder. End of discussion."

"Sheppard, he's probably right," Rodney broke in. John opened his mouth to offer another protest but before he could say anything, Ronon spoke up.

"I can go in front of him and guide his feet."

"Yeah, right, and then _both_ of you'll wind up falling," Rodney scoffed.

"No, we won't," Ronon replied, unconcerned.

"Everyone, I am in command of this mission, and this is _my_ call," Lorne said, his tone brooking no room for further argument. "Sheppard, you either let us lower you down, or we head back to the jumper."

"Are you kidding me?" Rodney squawked in protest. "No, we are _not!"_

"Doctor McKay…" Lorne said in a warning voice.

"We didn't bring him all this way just to turn back around two minutes later!" Rodney nearly shouted, his voice echoing around the room.

Lorne said nothing to that, and John clenched his fist, anger and frustration surging through him. He gritted his teeth, his muscles tensing, itching for an argument, and then Teyla squeezed his other hand. He'd almost forgotten that he was still holding onto her.

"John, it is only for your safety," she quietly said in that calm, no-nonsense way of hers. "It will take but a few moments."

At once, all John's anger depleted. He could never argue with Teyla's pragmatism, but still, he hated this. He knew something like this would happen. He considered balking, calling this whole damn thing off. Then, he thought of what he'd do in Lorne's situation, and realized that he'd probably make the same call.

"Fine," he said almost snidely. Just because he was agreeing to this, didn't mean he had to like it. "Put the damn thing on."

He held still and silent through the indignity of Lorne strapping and securing the harness around his hips. Ronon went down the shaft first, holding onto the other end of the rope as Lorne and Rodney carefully lowered John down. He held out his hands, and the shaft was so narrow that could touch both sides without even fully stretching out his arms. It only took a few seconds until his feet touched ground again, but the reminder of his fucking helplessness and uselessness was a cruel one.

Rodney immediately offered John his arm once they were all down, somehow understanding that he was the only one John could tolerate assisting him right now. Ducking his head, his face burning with humiliation, John took hold of friend's sleeve and they made their way down the passage. It stank disconcertingly of rot and decay, their boots squelched as they walked, and their voices sounded too loud in the narrow, confined space. John was glad it was only a short distance until they stepped into what felt like a wider area and where the air smelled cleaner, probably from some sort of ventilation system.

"So this is it," Rodney said, then paused expectantly, as though John could actually take in what was in front of him. Rodney led him a few more steps straight ahead, and John held out his free hand to try to touch something, to ground himself.

"No!" Rodney shouted, snatching John's hand in his larger one, making him jump. _"Don't_ touch anything until I tell you."

"Jesus, McKay…" John breathed out, his heart skittering in his chest.

"Sorry, I… uh, we just don't want to accidentally trigger anything, okay?" Rodney quickly explained, probably thinking of the last time they'd both been in one of these facilities.

Rodney let go of John's arm, placed both hands on his shoulders and carefully steered him to the left. John unconsciously clenched his hands into tight fists, pressing them against his thighs. Rodney slowly turned him until the back of John's legs pressed against something. He heard a droning sound and the bleep of something mechanical flaring to life.

"Okay, I've got you right in front of the nice control chair that's already in love with you because _Jesus,_ you haven't even sat down yet, and it's activated," Rodney said with awe. "Okay… now sit down. _Slowly."_

John paused a moment, chewing on his lip, then did as he was told. Like the chair at the base in the Antarctica, like the chair on Atlantis, this one immediately blazed with a surge of energy, dropping to a reclining position with an almost eager sounding mechanical chirp. John held his arms up a little, away from the armrests and hand controls, his fingers curled against his palms. He could feel warmth at the back of his head, his legs and along his back.

"There, see that?" Rodney crowed. "Now _that's_ what I'm talking about. Lit up like the fucking Las Vegas strip."

John shifted on the chair and sucked in a deep breath. He carefully lowered his hands to the armrests and straightened his fingers, overwhelmed by the swirling energy, the incredible power that was right at his fingertips. He closed his eyes and allowed the energy wash over him, to encapsulate him. He'd almost forgotten what this felt like. At the same time, this chair felt different than the others, or maybe he'd just been away from all this for too long.

"Sheppard?" Rodney called to him. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah…" John said, and his voice sounded a little dreamy, distant. "It just… feels strange."

"Strange how?"

John shook his head, unable to describe it. He tightened his fingers, the energy pitched up a notch and even his teeth felt like they were thrumming. _Tell me tell me tell me tellll…_ the chair seemed to be whispering to him, beckoning him to command it.

"It's… intense," he managed after a moment. "Like it's been waiting here for a long, long time…"

"Well, don't make friends with it," Rodney snapped and sounding worried all at the same time. "Just concentrate on one thing at a time. Think about the schematics of the city – I know that'll be hard because you don't have a visual, but focus on the power source. The ZedPM."

John nodded and concentrated. Images popped up in his mind, one after the other after the other, shuffling so fast that he couldn't keep track of them.

"Holy shit! Will you look at all those screens coming up!" Rodney nearly shouted. His other teammates murmured around him, but John couldn't focus on their voices enough to make out their words. "Sheppard… can you slow it down?" Rodney directed, his eager voice penetrating the overwhelming sensations. "One thing at a time, buddy. Try to concentrate on the ZedPM."

"Okay," John whispered. Rodney's voice was becoming distant now, too, seemingly miles away. John loosened his grip on the armrests and tried to slow down the information spewing across his mind's eye. One schematic after the other, one diagram after the other popped up. A highly detailed map of the city, a pulsing power core at the center, a rendering of the Pegasus galaxy solar system – a bright sun, thousands and thousands of stars, tiny pinpricks of twinkling lights – and he couldn't concentrate. After so much blackness for so long, he couldn't focus on any one thing. He could only marvel at the images and the colors… so vivid, so clear… He wanted to see more and more, and the images began flashing so quickly that he almost got dizzy.

"John, ease up!" Rodney called, and John startled a little at his friend's distant but sharp voice. He tried to nod, but it was hard to get his body to cooperate. His heart raced and he heard his own breaths rasping in his ears. He tried to slow down, tried to focus on just one thing, to find what they needed, but the lights and the colors had been so spectacular, so mesmerizing, he wanted to see them again. And even as he thought of it, the images suddenly morphed into brilliant, multicolored lights rushing through his head, like surges of lightning, like fireworks on the fourth of July, like the streaks of stars just before you jumped into hyperspace, and it was so amazing, so incredible… it was…

"It's beautiful…" he whispered, smiling.

"What is?" Rodney's faraway voice asked.

_The lights,_ John thought, rather than spoke aloud, because it was too much, he couldn't seem to get his body to move, to respond. The lights filled his head, streaks of brilliant snow white, yellow like the sunshine, blue like the Antarctic sky, and nothing else mattered. Nothing…

"John, what's going on? The screens are gone," said Rodney's confused sounding voice. "Stay in control, concentrate on one thing. Concentrate on the ZedPM. John, are you even lis—"

And then Rodney's voice winked out. The chair seemed to be whispering to him again, _what do you want, what do you need, tellmetellmetellmeteltellll… _John lost himself in the urgent, shushing voice, and with all those pretty lights filling his head, he could only think of the one thing he wanted most in the world. He wished for it more than he'd ever wished for anything.

_Please,_ he whispered, his lips moving soundlessly. _Please… _

Something warm and wet ran from the corners of his eyes and trickled into his ears and the hair at his temples. A harsh, bright light suddenly exploded in his mind, and all at once, a surge of energy seemed to focus entirely on him. A sharp, vivid pain pierced his skull, right behind his eyes, and he moaned, arching his back. His fingers spasmed then curled tightly around the armrests.

"Rodney!" someone's voice shouted. "What is happening?"

John felt a relentless thumping, a frenetic fluttering in his chest, and he distantly realized that it was his own heart. He heard the rasping of his own breaths, rattling against the back of his throat, and then a low, keening sound. He couldn't tell if the sound was coming from him or from the chair. His fingers hurt, his jaw and tightly clenched teeth ached, the pain in his head was white-hot, but he wasn't afraid. He didn't want it to stop. He _wouldn't_ stop it, even though he knew all it would take to do that was one single thought, one simple command. He knew the chair wouldn't do anything to harm him. He knew…

"McKay, shut the damn thing _off!"_ another voice shouted.

"Sheppard, what the _hell_ are you doing? Stop it, _now!_ Shut it down!"

"Dammit, McKay, if you're not going to do anything—"

John felt strong hands suddenly gripping his upper arms, pulling at him. _NO!_ his mind and the chair both shrieked at once, as one. It was too soon. _Not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet_ he chanted in his head. Something warm enveloped him, like a heated blanket, and his limbs began tingling, pins and needles prickling over every inch of his skin.

There was a pained, guttural shout and the hands abruptly released him.

"What the hell? Ronon, what the hell just happened?"

"I don't know… it pushed me back. Like a force field or something. It's not _supposed_ to do that, is it, McKay?"

"Rodney can't you deactivate it?"

"I don't know! John, if you're doing this, knock it off right fucking now! We don't need the ZedPM that badly, so just shut it the hell down! Do you hear me?"

"Doctor McKay!"

"Yes, yes. Everyone just _shut up_ a minute! I almost have it. Just getting the control crystal—"

John heard but couldn't focus on the muted panicky voices shouting around him. The light in his head was pure, unblemished, searing white, his head blazed with muted pain, and the keening sound went on and on and on, but he knew it would be over soon, it would finish and—

The light suddenly winked out, and the chair snapped back to an upright position. John gasped, his body jolting forward, his teeth clicking together. The energy faded, and all at once, he felt terribly lost, alone. Something grabbed hold of him, tugging on him.

"No!" he cried, clinging to the armrests, kicking his legs, fighting with everything he had. Something pried at his fingers, and he cried out in protest when his hands were pulled free. Something grabbed him around his chest, pinning his arms and he bucked against the strong grip. He was wrestled to the floor and something pinned his legs. His head swam, his stomach roiled and for a moment, all sensations faded out…

…then there was a soft hand stroking his face, brushing his sweat-dampened hair back from his forehead.

"…think he's starting to come out of it now…"

"…ohn can you hear me?"

The voices of his teammates penetrated the heavy fog and sharp pain filling John's head, pulsing at his temples and around his eye sockets. He pulled in a ragged breath and tried to reach up to rub his burning eyes, but he couldn't move his arms. Someone was holding him, lightly holding onto his wrists, and he was too disoriented, too exhausted to fight against the grip. He kept his eyes shut because he could still see those dazzling, pretty lights in his head.

"John, can you hear me?" Rodney called to him, his voice wavering and high-pitched with fear. There was a hand on his face again, big, rough and lightly callused, patting his cheek.

John tried to answer his friend but he couldn't seem to find his voice. He couldn't think. The lights in his mind's eye faded out, and he wanted to weep for the loss of them. He slowly pulled open his eyes, expecting the usual blackness, but instead, there was a strange residual aura, white shadows ghosting the dark. He was too out of sorts to puzzle over what it was, though. He leaned heavily against the solid bulk at his back, and when he tried to free his hands again, the grip on his arms released only to loosely clasp him around his upper chest. John lifted his hand and his fingers brushed against leather and buckles.

"Ronon…?" he breathed out.

"You back with us, buddy?" Ronon asked gently, his deep voice vibrating against John's upper back, and John could only nod.

"What… happened…" he managed after a moment, his voice sounding a little slurred to his own ears.

"Oh, thank God…" Rodney breathed out.

"Why'd you pull me out?" John asked, his voice still slurring a little. "It was too soon…" He rubbed his eyes but the aura and white blurs didn't fade, and his headache pitched up a notch. "You pulled me out too soon…"

"Too soon for what?" Rodney asked, then fell silent a moment. "Oh… hey, don't worry about the ZedPM right now. We've managed this long without it."

Wincing a little, John shook his head because that wasn't what he had meant at all. "Shouldn't have pulled me out," he insisted, although he wasn't sure what exactly had happened, or why it had been so important to let the chair finish what it was doing.

"Sheppard, we thought you were having a goddamned stroke!" Rodney snapped.

"It wouldn't… hurt me," John told him, carefully shaking his head again, although he didn't entirely understand why he was so certain of that either. He just knew.

"Yeah, right," Rodney shot back. "If I hadn't pulled the control crystal and deactivated the thing when I did, we'd probably be scraping you off the fucking ceiling right now. Were you trying to fry your brains, you idiot?"

"Rodney, that is enough," Teyla chastised her friend, and John felt her small hand press against his cheek, thumbing away the wetness at his temples. "It is all right now, John. Just lie still a moment."

A water bottle was pressed against his mouth, and John took a long swallow, the water blessedly cool against his parched and scratchy throat. His back twinged, his legs felt cramped and he struggled to sit up. Ronon released his grip, but kept one hand on John's shoulder. As he sat fully up, his head swam, and he felt himself listing a little to one side.

"Whoa, easy," Ronon cautioned and grabbed hold of John's shoulders with both hands.

'We should get him back to Atlantis," Lorne said.

"I'm okay…" John told his teammates, even though he was still dizzy and his stomach was still roiling a little. He shifted his feet under him and pushed up to his knees. Ronon quickly caught hold of him under his arms and carefully hauled him to his feet. The shift in gravity made John's head swim again. His headache pitched up a few more nauseating notches, and the aura staining the blackness became a swirling, slow motion kaleidoscope. His knees buckled, and Ronon caught him before he fell.

"Actually, you're not looking so good, buddy," Ronon informed him, practically holding him up.

"Yeah, you and Night of the Living Dead, Sheppard," Rodney agreed. "So just shut up and let's get you home and get you checked out."

John nodded, seeing no point in arguing. He was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to manage three steps on his own anyway. Ronon wrapped his arm around his waist and began to lead him in what John assumed was the direction of the doorway. As he took a few shuffling steps, the white blurs marring the usual blackness were strange, completely disorienting. It seemed a little stronger at the corner of his left eye, and without thinking, he stopped and reached out his hand, as though he could touch it. His fingers brushed against the doorframe, and he felt warmth at his fingertips.

"Sheppard?" Ronon said, pausing.

"John, what are you doing?" Rodney asked, directly behind them.

John wanted to answer his friends, but he couldn't think clearly. He couldn't orient himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, the auras faded out and vertigo washed over him. He didn't realize he was listing again until Ronon grasped hold of him, pulling him upright.

When John was pulled back up the shaft again, he had to grit his teeth against the escalating pain crashing through his skull. He didn't remember much of the jumper flight back to Atlantis – he'd spent most of it dozing, leaning heavily against Ronon's side.

Once they reached Atlantis, the white blurs flittering at the corners of his eyes seemed even stronger. A medical team met them in the jumper bay, coaxed John to lay back on a gurney, and as he was pushed down the corridors to the infirmary, the blurs hazily streaked right above him. He briefly closed his eyes and was almost surprised that the white disappeared, leaving only blackness. When he opened his eyes again, the streaks were back, hazily changing direction along with the gurney. A giddy, nearly frightening realization suddenly burned in his mind, but he didn't allow it to take full hold. He didn't dare, because it was probably just wishful thinking, or more likely, some strange residual effect that would soon begin fade, too. Like that weird after-image that stained your retinas when you stared into a bright light for too long.

His racing thoughts were interrupted when they finally reached the infirmary, and Keller immediately rushed over to him. As the young doctor checked him over, John downplayed his near excruciating headache. He was afraid to mention the white permeating the former immutable blackness of his vision. Maybe Keller would think he was imagining things. Maybe he was simply experiencing those auras that chronic migraine sufferers often complained of, or maybe... maybe the chair had done something to him. Something incredible…

Quietly submitting to the medical team's poking and prodding and a full body scan, John was surprised when Keller finally proclaimed that aside from his headache and a slightly elevated blood pressure, he was fine and in perfect health.

"You're kidding," Rodney said in disbelief when the doctor called in John's team in to give them the news.

"Hey, that's a _good_ thing, McKay," John said from the gurney he was still stretched out on.

"He was only in that chair for five – seven minutes, tops, and he was practically catatonic after we managed to pry him from the damn thing!" Rodney protested, all but ignoring him.

John frowned, surprised at that. It had seemed much longer, unfathomable. Sudden fear washed over him. What if they didn't allow him to go back to the planet, to the chair? All at once, he knew with a strange, but absolute certainty that he had to go back there and let it finish what it had started. No matter what.

"I just… I went in too deep," he said quickly, hoping to explain, and there was a sudden silence around him. He sat up a little more and wondered if maybe he shouldn't have said anything.

"What do you mean?" Rodney said, instantly curious.

"I don't know…" John thought a moment, trying to articulate at least some of what had happened. "It's always kind of weird coming up from the control chairs," he said truthfully. "It always takes a minute to come out of it. But I… I think it's different like this," he said, waving a hand over his eyes. "My therapist back home told me that the longer you're blind, the more your other senses start to develop and get stronger. Maybe that's all this was. Maybe my Ancient gene is… over-compensating, and maybe I just… I don't know… lost control, lost my concentration."

"That's possible," Rodney said, his voice softening, speculative. "You _were_ flying though those command screens like you were on freaking speed."

"Yeah, that's all it was. I just have to remember to focus, to let it happen naturally, like I used to do with the chair here on Atlantis. I'll go slower next time and stay in control – I promise," John said, hoping that Rodney and the others would leave it at that, because the truth was, John was beginning to suspect that he had taken far more control of that chair than he was willing to articulate. "Really, guys, I'm okay," he added as casually as he could. "I didn't mean to freak everyone out. I'll be fine to go back tomorrow. We've still got that ZPM to find, remember?"

Keller laid a hand on his shoulder. "How about we wait and see how you're feeling in the morning, okay?"

John took a deep, frustrated breath, but reluctantly agreed, and despite his clean bill of health, Keller insisted on having him stay the night in the infirmary, keeping an eye on him, just in case. John didn't complain and accepted a dose of acetaminophen, which barely took the edge off his headache.

Situated in a bed at the far back corner, where at least it was quieter, and settled in for the night, John finally slipped into a restless and fitful doze, exhaustion taking hold. It could have only been a few minutes or hours later when he woke with a start, his heart pounding, the ache in his head throbbing in time. He had been dreaming of the chair, of flying, flying, flying, the energy coursing through his veins, he and the chair as one, until suddenly, they were ripped apart. He sat up in bed, opened his eyes wide, and found only the usual, terrible blackness surrounding him. A wave of crushing disappointment washed over him. Just as he suspected, the auras had faded out, just like those pretty lights had done. He should have known better, but even still, tears sprang to his eyes.

Then he thought of something. He took a deep breath and listened a moment. The infirmary was still and silent around him, and he suspected that it was very late. He remembered the small lights above all the beds in the infirmary and thought the lights on over his own bed to almost full intensity. He tilted his head up and there it was. Muted, but definite white blurs. He couldn't hold back a gasp at the mingled relief, joy, excitement and gratitude rushing through him. This was real. This was really happening. He knew he should call Dr. Keller, or a nurse, and maybe it was irrational, but he couldn't do it. He didn't dare tell anyone, because he was fairly certain that if he did, everyone would instantly swarm over him with myriad tests and scans and questions, and they might not let him go back.

No, he'd wait and see what happened tomorrow morning, if the blurs were still there. But either way, he _was_ going back. One way or another, he was.

He sagged back against the pillows, and he couldn't stop looking up at the twin blurs, finally a reprieve from the darkness. His heart raced, his thoughts followed suit, hope burning bright in his mind. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep any more this night, but it didn't matter.

All that mattered was going back to that city. To the chair.

* * *

---tbc---


	11. Chapter 9

Hi ho! Here we go, finally! The last two chapters! Yeehaw! Mega apologies for taking so long to finish this story, but I do hope that it was at least halfways worth the wait.

* * *

Bleary-eyed and irritable, Rodney pulled on his shirt and raked his fingers through hair still damp from his shower. His mind was churning, and he couldn't tune out the thoughts that had kept him tossing and turning throughout the long, nearly sleepless night.

No matter how much he tried, he couldn't stop replaying the previous day's events over and over in his mind, analyzing every second. The trouble was, he couldn't think of a single thing he should have done differently. Up until when John had decided to commune too deeply with the control chair, things had been going perfectly according to plan. The trip to the planet had been expectedly uneventful. The chair had lit up pretty much the second John breathed on it, as Rodney had anticipated. As soon as John sat down, a rendering of the city had appeared right over him, also as expected. Then all those multitudes of screens, schematics, diagrams and maps had popped up. Now _that_ Rodney hadn't planned on, but the plethora of information had been so amazing and so much more than he'd dared to hope for that he had nearly forgotten to breathe in his excitement.

Then things had gone a little… nuts. The information had started flashing by far too quickly, a virtual tornado, which suddenly, and without warning, winked out. The head of the chair had flared with a harsh, searing light. John had arched up, as though an electrical current were surging through him and moaning as if in pain.

When they couldn't pull John out, Rodney had panicked, and he'd almost broken the crystal as he'd yanked it from the back of the chair to shut it down. When Ronon and Lorne finally managed to wrestle John from the chair, and he'd gone completely limp, his features slack, his eyes half-open and terrifyingly blank, Rodney had thought the damn thing had blown John's mind.

Thankfully, it had only been a few minutes until John came out of it, but Rodney was beginning to wonder if he was getting too old for all this unexpected shit. It had been a full two hours before his hands had finally stopped shaking, and Rodney's hands _never _shook, not even under the direst of circumstances, as he'd proven on many occasions.

After they'd left John in the infirmary, the post-mission briefing with Elizabeth and Caldwell had been as unpleasant as Rodney had anticipated. He was still on Elizabeth's shit list, and this hadn't made matters any better. In fact, she'd all but rubbed Rodney's nose in it; _I was worried something like this would happen._ Yeah, right. Like she was psychic or something. Rodney shook his head. _Dammit,_ leave it to Sheppard to ruin a perfectly logical and uncomplicated plan.

Giving his hair another swipe and stepping into his shoes, Rodney tapped on his radio. "Doctor Keller, it's McKay."

She responded a few seconds later. "Good morning, Rodney."

"Yeah, we'll see… so how's Sheppard?" Rodney asked, almost afraid of hearing the answer.

"He's fine," she replied, surprising Rodney, and sounding a little surprised herself. "In fact, I've already released him."

"What?" Rodney blinked, heading for the door. "Already?"

"Yep. He told me that his headache is completely gone and his vitals are all good. There was no need to keep him here any longer. Ronon and Teyla came by for him about ten minutes ago. I think they were heading for the commissary."

"Huh," Rodney said and tapped off his radio without another word.

Relief washed over him, and maybe they'd all just overreacted the day before. Maybe the mission going balls-up was, as John had told them, simply a case of him getting overwhelmed and losing control. Rodney had messed around with the chair on Atlantis during his almost Ascended state, and he remembered all too-clearly how incredible the feeling was, how much power could be had, how easy it was to just let loose if you weren't careful. Maybe that's all it was.

At the same time, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it than that. That John wasn't telling them everything. And maybe, Rodney suddenly realized, maybe the problem didn't have anything to do with what he should or could have done differently. Maybe the problem had everything to do with Sheppard.

When Rodney reached the commissary, he heard his team before he saw them. Ronon's deep, loud guffaws, John's quieter snickers and Teyla's soft giggles.

"What's so funny?" Rodney asked, stepping up to their table and looking at each of them in turn.

"Hey, McKay." Ronon grinned up at him and waved an arm at the empty chair beside him. "We were just about to send out a search party for you."

Rodney shrugged and sat down in the proffered seat. "I uh… I overslept."

John frowned at that. "You okay?"

Rodney nodded, then remembered that John couldn't see it. "Yeah." He tapped his own forehead. "Couldn't shut off the old brain, as usual."

John nodded in commiseration. "Kinda had the same problem myself last night. Plus, those infirmary beds are as hard as a rock. I almost forgot that."

Rodney looked a little closer at his friend. Like Rodney, John was freshly showered, shaved and smelling strongly of soap. His hair was still wet and sticking up in wild spikes, even more so than usual, and he did look tired – his eyes slightly bloodshot with dark shadows circling them. Rodney's worry pitched up again, but he decided not to say anything.

Instead, he went and got himself a coffee and a muffin, even though for once, he didn't feel much like eating. As soon as he sat down again, Ronon wryly asked if he'd left the rest of his breakfast at the counter. John suggested that maybe Rodney had finally decided to go on that diet. Rodney grunted at them both to shut up, but in truth, the ribbing was oddly comforting, as though everything were back to normal. Business as usual.

That was interrupted when Elizabeth, carrying a tray of her own, came up to their table.

"May I join all of you?" she asked, but her smile was fixed on John.

It was John who immediately answered, too. "Of _course_ you can."

Teyla warmly greeted the other woman, and Ronon, stretching out a long leg, hooked a chair from the table beside them with his foot and pulled it over. Elizabeth thanked him and slid the chair over to sit beside John. They all chattered easily and casually for a moment. The usual comments were made on the perpetual gloomy weather and how they were looking forward to spring. Elizabeth complained briefly about the mountains of paperwork on her desk that she hadn't had time to even glance at yet.

Taking a long sip of her coffee, Elizabeth carefully set the cup down again, frowning a little, as though considering her next words. "I wanted to let all of you know that Colonel Caldwell has already authorized a return mission to the planet today and didn't see any point in another briefing. And as you know, Dr. Keller has cleared John for this mission, so you're all good to go at 09:00." She paused a moment to let her words sink in, and then focused her gaze on John. "I also wanted to make it clear that you don't _have_ to do this, John. We can even postpone the mission for a few days, if you like."

John shifted in his chair. A glimmer of fear darted so quickly across his features that if Rodney didn't know his friend any better, he would have thought he'd imagined it.

"No… I'm good to go," John drawled a moment later with an unconcerned shrug. "In fact, I'm looking forward to it." He flashed Elizabeth the unconscious flirtatious smile he reserved just for her and for when he wanted to get his own way.

Elizabeth wasn't falling for it the way she usually did, though. She looked closely at him, as though trying to read beyond the casual front. "Are you sure? You had us pretty worried yesterday."

"Positive," John answered, tipping his head in a half-nod.

"You know… maybe we _should_ wait until tomorrow," Rodney said, not positive at all. "Maybe even take a couple of days—"

"_What?_ You're kidding, right?" John broke in, incredulous, his mouth dropping open.

"Sheppard, you _were_ pretty messed up yesterday—" Rodney began.

"It was _just_ a little headache, McKay. I've had worse from listening to one of your lectures."

Rodney shot his friend a wasted nasty look. "Oh, ha ha."

"I'm _fine,"_ John reiterated, laying his hands flat on the table.

"All right, if you're certain, John," Elizabeth said, still closely observing his reactions. "But you understand that no one will think any less of you if you change your mind, don't you? You don't have to prove anything to anyone at this table."

Teyla and Ronon looked at John at that, saying nothing, just watching. Rodney held his tongue, as well, fairly certain that Elizabeth's tactic would only result in John going even more gung-ho into this mission.

"Actually… I _want_ to do this, Elizabeth," John said, just as Rodney fully expected him to. "After five months of being out of action, it's kind of… fun being out there again. I missed this." John ducked his head with an almost shy smile.

That finally seemed to reassure Elizabeth, and she visibly relaxed. Ronon and Teyla also seemed more at ease, and if two nights ago, John hadn't confessed his reluctance and fear at being out in the field again, Rodney would have fully bought the act, too.

Something was definitely up with John, and Rodney was determined to get him alone and find out just what that was before they headed out.

Unfortunately, in Ronon, Teyla and Lorne's eager anticipation to set out on schedule, Rodney didn't have a single moment to talk to John alone before they had to suit up and head for the jumper. In fact, Rodney could have sworn that John was avoiding talking to him as much as he could get away with, staying close beside Ronon and Teyla, using his friends as human shields.

Once they reached the planet, they flew down and down into a bright sunny sky, and once landed, Teyla again took John's hand and led him to the open back hatch. Rodney followed close behind as they stepped outside. Despite the clear sky and sunshine, the air smelled of incipient rain, and a light wind pushed at them as soon as they stepped from the protection of the jumper.

John took a few steps alongside Teyla then paused and tipped his head back, as if he were gazing at the sky. "The sun is shining," he said with a faint smile.

Stepping behind them, Rodney looked at his friend, confused, Teyla's expression probably mirroring his own.

"So it is," Rodney said after a moment. "I would have figured that the air here would feel positively arctic to you after all that heat in Reno."

"Nah, it's a beautiful day, McKay," John said with a grin.

Ronon bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet. "So are we gonna do this, or stand around all day commenting on the weather?"

John shuffled a few steps away from them and ducked his head slightly. "You guys go ahead. I want to talk to Rodney for a minute."

Rodney stared at him, surprised. After avoiding him all morning, _now_ he wanted to talk?

Ronon gave John a searching look of his own. "Everything okay, Sheppard?"

John nodded. "Yeah, I just want to go over some… Ancienty things before we go down."

"Ancienty things?" Ronon echoed slowly, and John nodded again then tipped his head apologetically.

Rodney jerked his chin at his teammates, and shooed them away with a wave of his hand. "Go ahead. We'll catch up."

Ronon frowned, but strode off in the direction of the amphitheater, Lorne flanking him, trotting to keep up with the Satedan's long strides. Teyla turned back once to give John an uncertain look, them followed after them.

Once they were out of earshot, Rodney turned toward John. "Okay, so what's up?"

John hesitated a moment, then quietly said, "Yesterday, I wouldn't have been able to tell if the sun was shining or not."

"What do you mean?" Rodney said, resisting the urge to look up at the sky.

John squinted hard and pointed up at the sun high above the hazy horizon. "I can tell where the sunlight is coming from."

"You're just feeling the sun's warmth, that's all," Rodney said carefully, although the damp air and wind negated much of it.

John shook his head. "No… that's not it. Rodney… ever since…" He paused when his voice began to tremble. He took a deep breath and tightly crossed his arms over his chest. "Before I activated that chair yesterday, I could see nothing. There was just blackness. But as soon as I opened my eyes after you pulled me out, I swear I could see some… blurs of light. At first, I thought it was some weird after-effect, or something, or that maybe it would fade in a while. I was almost scared to go to sleep last night because I thought that when I woke up, it would be gone, but… I can still see it. There used to be nothing but blackness… but now… there's _light._ I _swear_ I can see it."

Rodney's mouth worked silently for a moment. He shook his head and paced back and forth a few steps. He realized with sudden, stunned understanding that _this_ was what had been niggling at him, what John had been withholding. But it didn't make any sense. It simply couldn't be…

"Okay… uh … okay… well, maybe this is a… a natural progression of your disability," Rodney reasoned. "Lots of blind people develop light sensitivity, and—"

"And it just happens to coincide with what happened yesterday?" John interrupted, raising his eyebrows, and Rodney had to admit that it _was_ a pretty big stretch. "Rodney, I was diagnosed with total blindness – no light perception whatsoever," John continued. "I even went to a specialist a few months ago who told me the exact same thing, and that there's no chance of it ever changing."

"But what you're suggesting just isn't _possible,_ John."

"Gaining super powers and nearly ascending didn't seem possible not too long ago either, but it happened to _you,_ didn't it?" John pointed out.

"But the control chair is just a defense mechanism and command centre. It can't cure—"

"It was _trying_ to heal me," John broke in, his voice firmer now, his features tight with conviction. "I _know_ it was. I don't know how and I don't quite remember everything that happened, but I think I just told it what I wanted it to do, and… it _did."_

Rodney stared at John in amazement. "Are you saying that you… you somehow _manipulated_ the technology?"

John looked almost scared at the question, then nodded. "I think so. I didn't mean to… I was trying to find the ZPM, but then I could _see_ everything in my head, Rodney. It was like I'd never lost my sight, and it was so incredible, I didn't want it to stop, and it just… took over."

"So _that's_ why Ronon nearly had to break your fingers to pull you out of there," Rodney breathed out. He could only imagine what being able to see again must have been like for John, how overwhelming it must have been. No wonder he couldn't wait to get back here…

"You pulled me out too soon," John said quietly, an echo of his dazed, but insistent protests the day before.

For a moment, Rodney allowed himself to run with the possibility that maybe John was speaking the truth, that what he'd started might actual work… If it _were_ possible, then this was… _amazing._ The possibilities of what else John may be able to manipulate the technology into doing for him might even be beyond Rodney's wildest speculations.

Then the hope in John's face made him stop. The memory of Ronon peeling John's desperately clinging fingers from the chair rose vivid in Rodney's mind again. God… what if John was wrong…. What if this was all just false, desperate hope? _Jesus._ For a brief, almost traitorous moment, Rodney began to wish that he'd never brought John back here in the first place. _No,_ he shook his head at that because that line of thinking wouldn't help any. No, he simply had to take control of the situation, stay firm and stay calm.

"Listen, John, don't take this the wrong way, but maybe you're just…" Rodney paused trying to think of the right way to say what he was thinking.

"Just imagining things?" John finished for him. "That the thing just messed with my head? Or that it's just wishful thinking? Believe me, I've thought of all those things, too. And then this morning, Doctor Keller shone a penlight in my eyes, and I could see that, too. It was just a blur, but I sure as hell didn't imagine it."

"What did Keller say?" Rodney asked, surprised. "I can't believe she released you from the infirmary if —"

"I didn't tell her," John interrupted. "I haven't told anyone about this but you."

"What!" Rodney yelped. "Jesus, Sheppard! Are you out of your mind? If… what you're saying is actually true, then God only knows what that thing may have done to you!"

"My scans came back clean, remember? I'm in perfect health."

"I can't _believe_ Keller didn't pick this up," Rodney furiously muttered almost to himself.

"She wouldn't pick anything up unless she knew specifically what to look for," John said with a faint smirk. "Besides, it's just blurs. I can tell light from dark now, that's it. But it's a hell of a lot more than what it used to be."

"You still should have said something!"

John let out a laugh and relaxed his grip on his arms. "Rodney, think about it. If I had said anything, Keller would have run every test known to mankind on me, Elizabeth would have freaked, and do you really think they would have let me come back here? I _have_ go back to that chair and let it finish what it started."

Rodney stared at John, trying to slow down his thoughts enough to stay calm. "So you decided to wait until we were back here before sharing all this with me…" Realization finally dawned on him. He pointed at John in accusation. "You… you _planned_ this, didn't you? _Jesus,_ Sheppard!"

"Rodney, you have to promise not to say anything to them." John waved his arm to signify their teammates. "And I'm only telling you this now because I need you to promise that you won't pull me out again, and that you'll let it finish this time."

"What?" Rodney's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "No! No way!"

"I can find you the ZPM," John offered a little desperately. "In fact, there's _two_ ZPM's."

Rodney couldn't help perking up at that. "Really? Two ZedPM's?" Then he stopped and glared at John. "Wait a minute, did you think I'd actually _fall_ for that, you asshole?"

"But there _are_ two ZPM's," John said with such earnestness that Rodney couldn't help believing him. "One's a spare. Probably at full power, too. I can't remember where it's located, but I _can_ find it for you."

"A fully powered ZedPM…" Rodney breathed out. He thought of all the things he could do with one of those babies and grinned. It would be like winning the Pegasus galaxy version of the lottery. Then he shook his head furious with himself and even more furious with John. "All right, just… just _stop it!_ Stop distracting me! Do you _seriously_ think that I'd let you risk your life for a ZedPM? Do you really think I'm that fucking heartless, John?"

"No, of _course_ not." John shook his head, looking almost stricken. "But… please, Rodney, you _have_ to at least let me try…"

Rodney started pacing again without realizing it. "John, we have _no_ idea what that thing might do to you, or what might have happened if we'd left you there for a few minutes longer the last time. For all you know, you could have had a damned _stroke."_

"Rodney, it _won't_ hurt me," John said. "I know it won't."

"You _can't_ know that for sure!"

"I _do_ know!" John shouted.

"No, you don't!" Rodney shouted back. "You sure as hell didn't look like you were _enjoying_ the experience yesterday!"

"I could have shut the thing down anytime I _wanted_ to, Rodney! And believe me, if I _tell_ it to stop, it'll damn well _stop!"_ John made a furious, slashing motion with one hand. "But that's the thing. I _didn't_ want to! You pulled me out before it could _finish."_

Rodney stayed silent, shocked at John's sudden anger.

"I'm _willing_ to take the chance," John said, setting his jaw.

"Well, I'm not so sure that _I_ am," said Rodney quietly. "John, do you realize that a _force field_ activated around you so that we couldn't get at you? I've never seen a control chair do that before."

"Maybe it's a… a safeguard or something," John reasoned. "This chair's different somehow… and besides, you've never tried to forcibly pull me from any control chair before. I've always shut it down myself."

Rodney frowned and pondered the idea. "That's possible, I suppose." He sighed and tore a hand through his hair. "But John—"

"Look, Rodney," John abruptly cut him off, his voice quiet but steely. "I've spent the last five months in the dark with no hope of ever seeing anything again. Do you have _any_ idea what that's like?"

Rodney stared at him, and he couldn't answer. How _could_ he possibly understand? Then he thought about being trapped back in that room on M3R-6P8. He thought of those first few minutes after he'd woken to absolute blackness, scared, disoriented and helpless. He tried to imagine living through that for five months, for a lifetime, and he couldn't. He couldn't even begin to imagine what it had been like for John. He didn't want to. Even still, he tried to come up with some kind of answer, but John broke the silence for him.

"If there's even a _slight_ chance of getting my sight back, I'm taking it, McKay."

"John, listen…" Rodney began, but he still had no idea what he even wanted to say.

"No! _You _listen, dammit! You _owe_ me this. You wanted to make up for what happened on M3R-6P8? Well here's your chance."

Rodney shook his head in stunned disbelief, his eyes suddenly burning with both anger and regret. "Don't…" he breathed out and closed his eyes for a moment. _"Don't _you lay that on me, John. That's _not_ fair."

"It wasn't fair when you guilt-tripped me into coming back here to find your precious ZPM and save Atlantis from potential impending doom, either," John said, his chin trembling with anger and emotion. "I was doing okay back there, back home. I'd accepted my situation, and I was _dealing_ with it, but _you_ talked me into coming back here. And now… now that there's a chance… you _can't_ deny me this. _You_ started this, McKay, so here's the deal. I find your ZPM, and you let me do this."

Rodney stared at John, overwhelmed, and he didn't know what to do.

"What the hell are you guys _doing_ over there?" Ronon's bellow startled them both, and Rodney spun to look. The big Sedatan was leaning from the door of the building, squinting at them across the watery sunshine.

"All right! " Rodney shouted back. " We'll be there in a minute! Keep your shirt on!" Then under his breath, he irritably muttered, "What little there is of it…" He looked back at John, who was just standing there, his hands clenched, shoulders tensed and silently waiting for an answer.

_Jesus,_ this would be a terrible, stupid risk. Beyond stupid – it was reckless, potentially dangerous, and he shouldn't even be _considering_ it. But if there _was_ a chance… even the slightest chance that the chair was capable of what John believed it could do for him… would Rodney be able to live with himself if he didn't grant his friend this one shot?

"Okay," he finally said, because, after all, he had more than enough regrets than he already cared to live with. He raked his fingers through his hair, paced in a tight circle then stopped. "Fine. I can't believe I'm actually agreeing to this… but okay. Let's do this. Once we're in there, do you… do you know what to do?"

John nearly staggered with relief and let out a sharp breath. "Yeah," he said, his voice trembling. "I think so."

"All right," Rodney said, nodding. "I'll let you and your chair do your thing… I'll probably have to distract Ronon somehow so that he doesn't kill me…" He paused and pointed at John. "But I swear to God, Sheppard, if you look like you're in serious trouble, or if smoke starts coming out of your ears, I'll deactivate that thing for good."

"Rodney—"

"That's the deal – take it or leave it," Rodney snapped, setting his jaw.

John sighed, then nodded. _"Okay._ Deal."

Glancing towards the amphitheater, Rodney noticed Ronon striding towards them. "All right! We're coming!" he shouted and waved an arm at his teammate. "Impatient much?"

With a suddenly racing heart and a mouth gone nearly bone dry, Rodney took John's arm and began to lead him toward their teammates.

"Thanks, McKay," John said quietly, then stumbled as he tried to keep up with Rodney's brisk, furious steps.

"Thank me when it works," Rodney said, slowing down to match John's more cautious pace, his stomach churning, and _dammit,_ his hands had started shaking again. "Till then, shut up."

"Okay," John said, amiably enough. "It's gonna be fine."

"That doesn't sound like shutting up to me," Rodney groused. John mimed zipping his lips shut. "That's better," Rodney snapped, and glanced up as Ronon jogged up to them, looking at each of them in turn.

"What's going _on_ with you guys?" Ronon asked, exasperated.

"We were just shooting the breeze," John said with his most innocent expression. Ronon frowned and looked over to Rodney.

"Actually, I was just giving Sheppard here a little pep talk," Rodney said with a bright grin. "Right, buddy?" He slapped John hard enough on the back that his breath stuttered, and Rodney didn't feel one iota of guilt over that because the manipulative bastard deserved it.

Teyla and Lorne waited in the open doorway of the building, both of them looking worried. Once inside, Ronon, like the last time, climbed down the shaft first. When Lorne pulled out the harness and strapped John in, John didn't offer a single word of protest or displeasure. In fact, he was positively vibrating with anticipation, and Rodney was amazed that the others didn't seem to notice.

"You know," John said, tugging onto the rope, "I've always wanted to climb Atlantis and this would do the trick quite nicely. What do you say, McKay?" he asked, his voice echoing as Lorne and Rodney carefully eased him down the shaft. "Wanna try it with me?"

"When pigs fly and Wraiths become vegans, Sheppard," Rodney called after him. Once John's feet had touched ground, and Ronon began unbuckling him from the harness, Rodney took a deep breath and hunkered to his knees. He reached for the ladder and carefully began to climb down, toward the facility, toward the impossible.

Once back in the control room, everything of course, was as they'd left it. In their haste to get John back to Atlantis, Rodney noticed that he'd dropped a few pages of his notes on the floor. He stooped to pick them up, skimmed over them then tucked the pages in his notepad. He paced around the room a few times, pausing to run a few unnecessary diagnostics on the consoles. When his teammates began looking at him both questioningly and impatiently, and John asked if he was waiting for them all to die of old age or boredom, Rodney knew he couldn't drag this out any longer. With a racing heart, he took John's arm and led him to the chair.

"Be more careful this time, all right?" Rodney said as casually as he could, but when Teyla moved closer to him, giving him a concerned look, he suspected that his voice had been quaking as badly as the rest of him.

John nodded and hesitated a moment. Just like the day before, as soon as he sat down, the chair blazed with blue-white lights, and immediately glided to a reclining position. He slowly pressed his fingers over the controls on the handrests and closed his eyes.

Rodney positioned himself beside John again, notepad in hand. "Okay, Sheppard. Nice and slow, remember. Stay in control."

John nodded again, and the same rendering of the city materialized over him. Rodney watched over him carefully, but so far, John's breaths were slow and regular, his features relaxed, almost peaceful.

Then a diagram of what Rodney immediately recognized as the underground facility they were presently occupying came up. There was a red glowing dot pulsing at the core of tubular shaped object, situated in the room to their left. The glowing dot stopped pulsing and flared bright red and moved upward.

"The spare ZPM's in the other room," John said in an almost dreamy, distant voice. "It's nearly at full power."

Rodney grinned, both triumph and relief coursing through him. He'd suspected that the ZedPM was tucked away in there, and so far, John seemed to be perfectly in control of things. "Where's the other one?"

John frowned and some more diagrams whizzed over him before disappearing. "It's by the control tower. Like the one at Atlantis, but it's powering this station and what's left of the city."

Rodney nodded and scribbled some notes on his pad. "Okay, we'll leave that one alone." He looked over to Teyla and Ronon. "Go check in the other room and let me know if the ZedPM is easily accessible."

They both frowned at him but did as they were told. A moment later, Ronon poked his head back in the room to inform Rodney that the device was most definitely accessible and theirs for the taking.

"Excellent!" Rodney replied. "Both of you stay there and keep an eye on it. If it starts to go back down again, let me know."

"You want us to _watch_ the thing?" Ronon's incredulous voice carried back to him.

"Yes!" Rodney shouted, and Lorne, who had positioned himself halfway between the control chair and the doorway to the other room, gave him a puzzled look. "Those things are unpredictable," Rodney added, refusing to meet the man's gaze. "Highly… unstable, even. Sometimes…"

John's lips twitched with amusement, knowing exactly what Rodney was doing. Lorne just stood there a moment, then strode over to the room. He peered inside the doorway then came back, pacing back and forth, just as Rodney had hoped he would do. Rodney positioned himself even closer to John.

"Okay, buddy," he whispered, close to John's ear. "If you're gonna do this, now's your chance."

John tensed and tightened his fingers on the armrests. His brow furrowed in concentration, and he sucked in a deep breath and held it. The chair seemed to hum even louder, myriad screens appeared over him again, and his breath hitched as he finally let it out.

"It's not working…" he gasped, sounding near panic.

"Maybe you're trying too hard. Just let it happen, like the last time," Rodney said, forcing back helpless, traitorous hopes that the chair would do nothing more.

John nodded, the blue-white glow of the chair washing his face to such paleness that his skin almost appeared translucent. The screens disappeared again, and all at once, John's features relaxed, becoming almost slack. A few moments later, he began whispering under his breath.

"The lights," he said so quietly that Rodney was more reading his lips than hearing him. "Let me see the lights… Please. I want to see them again…"

The chair continued to hum, remaining a steadily glowing bluish white. Rodney was just about to call to John to come up for air when a searing light flared at John's head. He made a garbled sound that was caught between a sob and a laugh. Every muscle in his body tensed, the tendons standing out on his neck, his teeth tightly gritting together.

"John!" Rodney hissed, his eyes wide. _Jesus._ This was just like the last time…

Lorne rushed back to the other side of the chair. "Doctor McKay!"

Rodney waved him off without sparing the man a glance, all his attention focused on John and the chair. "It's okay. He's okay."

"It doesn't look like it! This is exactly what happened the last time!" Lorne protested, echoing Rodney's own thoughts.

Rodney opened his mouth to reassure the major, when John softly cried out, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He twisted and arched in the chair, his fingers gripping the armrests with such strength that his knuckles turned white and the tendons stood out sharply on his wrists.

Teyla and Ronon came rushing in from the other room and darted towards the chair. Rodney held up his hand to bring them to a halt, and to his amazement, they obeyed him.

_Hurry, hurry, please hurry,_ Rodney chanted in his head, his eyes and attention locked on John. Ronon, Teyla and Lorne called to him, a flurry of questions, but Rodney ignored them, their voices nothing but white noise.

The light at the head of the chair pitched up another notch, so bright that Rodney's hands flew up to shield his eyes. John began whispering incomprehensibly under his breath, and the chair droned with a loud, purring sound.

"McKay, what the hell are you _doing?"_ Ronon shouted. "We have to get him the hell out of there!"

"Just give him a couple of more minutes," Rodney said without looking up, not daring to avert his gaze for even one second. _Please, God, let this work, let him be okay, let it work…_

Without warning, Ronon darted to the side of the chair, reaching for John.

"No! _Don't!"_ Rodney shouted, waving his hands, stopping the Satedan in his tracks. _"Don't_ touch him! You'll just activate the force field again!" he explained, his voice shaking. "Don't… just give him a few more minutes! Please!"

Ronon growled, his eyes wild with anger and fear, his hands clenching and unclenching, itching to do something, to act.

Teyla looked back and forth at them then her gaze fixed on John's tensed form. "Rodney, what are you saying? Why are you doing this?"

Rodney was about to try to answer her when John began to moan, continuously, piteously. Rodney's stomach clenched, and that was it. Enough was enough.

"John!" he called to his friend. "Stop it! Stop it, right _now, _do you hear me! Tell it to stop!"

John didn't respond, or even seem aware of him, his moans pitching to a steady keening. Rodney began to shove past Ronon to get to the back of the chair when the searing light suddenly blinked out. The chair snapped to an upright position, and John pitched forward. Rodney was just close enough that he managed to catch him before he tumbled to the floor.

Grasping him around his shoulders, Rodney was shocked at how badly John was shaking. He tried to ease him to the floor, but John clung to him with such fierce determination that Rodney stopped and just held onto him. Ronon and Teyla flanked him on either side, Teyla cautiously laying a hand on John's arm, but he didn't seem to notice the contact.

"John?" Rodney ducked his head to try to look at John's face, but he had tucked his head against Rodney's chest, his breaths shuddering, his hair and upper back damp with sweat. "It's okay… you're okay," Rodney found himself crooning softly in John's ear when he didn't respond, remembering what his friend had said about it taking a few minutes to come up from the chair's intoxicating power. "Just breathe… you're okay. It's okay now," he said, as reassurance for both John and himself.

"What the hell is going on here, McKay?" Ronon growled.

"S'okay… Ronon…" John whispered, raising his head a little and dropping it on Rodney's shoulder again when the effort seemed too much. John held on tight to Rodney, his eyes clenched shut and trembling so hard that his teeth rattled together. "Jus'… gimme minute…"

Glancing down at him, Rodney noticed that John's nose was bleeding, a line of red trailing his upper lip and running down his chin.

Wide-eyed, Rodney turned to Ronon. "Help me get him to the floor."

Ronon looked ready to kill something, namely Rodney, but he slid to John's other side and very gently reached under his arms and slid him from the chair, Rodney supporting John's other side. John's fingers were still tightly and resolutely gripping Rodney's jacket and so Rodney sat on the floor propping his friend against his chest. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it under John's nose. They just sat there a few minutes, John trembling in Rodney's arms, and Rodney trying to staunch the flow of blood, shaking almost as much.

Gradually, John's grip on him loosened. He reached up to take hold of the handkerchief himself.

"Are you okay?" Rodney asked, looking down at John as he dropped the cloth. The bleeding seemed to have stopped.

John raised his head, tried to nod then flinched at the pain it must have caused him. He slowly pulled his eyes open. The whites were filled with blood.

"Oh, Jesus…" Rodney breathed out, his heart skipping a couple of beats.

"John!" Teyla gasped, her own eyes wide with fear.

John took a strained, shuddering breath, but managed to smile at her. Then he tilted his head up at Rodney. "Hi, guys."

Rodney stared at him, his mouth dropping open in shock. John was squinting hard, almost looking through his eyelashes and going a little cross-eyed, but unbelievably, his gaze was almost focused on Rodney's.

"Did you guys get new uniforms?" John slurred, turning his head in Teyla's direction again.

Wild hope surged within Rodney, but he didn't quite let it take hold. Not yet. "You… can you see us?"

Teyla, Ronon and Lorne all began to speak at once, but Rodney ignored them.

"John… did… did it work?" he carefully asked.

John nodded, his bleary, alarming blood-red gaze drifting. He turned his head to look at the chair, then up at the ceiling. "Ever'thing's… fuzzy… but yeah… it worked." He smiled an exhausted, but deliriously happy smile.

"It worked?" Rodney echoed incredulously, an elated grin spreading across his face. "It _worked!_ I can't believe it worked!"

"Told you so," John murmured, leaning heavily against him.

"Sheppard?" Ronon said softly, crouching in front of John, his face looking startlingly young in his shock and confusion. "What the hell's going on? What happened?"

John grinned almost drunkenly at the Satedan, his eyes drifting shut. His fingers spasmed on Rodney's sleeve and he sucked in a sharp breath. "'Long story, big guy," he managed after a moment.

"It was the chair," Rodney explained, but his teammates only stared at him in greater confusion. He directed his attention back to John. "Hah! I _told_ you I could fix anything," he crowed with wild joy, an almost hysterical giggle spilling from his mouth.

John chuffed out a soft laugh. "What makes… you think _you_ h-had anything to do with this?"

"_I_ talked you into coming here, remember?" Rodney reminded him. "All _you_ wanted to do was surf and score chicks."

John pulled his eyes open again, and when he managed to meet Rodney's gaze, they both grinned at each other, then started laughing like loons. Teyla and Ronon stared at them as though they had, in fact, lost their minds. Lorne paced back and forth as if unsure what to do next.

John sobered, and looking at Rodney, his eyes were startlingly green amidst the red scleras. "Thank you," he said quietly, his voice trembling, and the gratitude in his eyes and on his face was too much. Rodney could only nod, folding his arms tighter around his friend.

When John seemed a little stronger, Rodney and Ronon helped ease him to a sitting position. His face was so pale that it had taken on a grayish cast.

Lorne directed everyone to gather their gear and head back for Atlantis. Ronon carefully lifted John to his feet, Rodney hovering close beside them, reluctant to let him go. As they led him to the door, John dragged his feet and waved his arm in a vague direction.

"Wait… you forget s-something."

"What?" Rodney asked, his mind drawing a blank.

"The ZPM?" John reminded him in a sing-songy voice.

"Oh, shit!" Rodney all but slapped himself in the forehead. "Right!" He carefully released John's arm, and Ronon easily supported his full weight. In truth, Rodney didn't give a rat's ass about the damn thing at the moment, but at the same time; it wasn't as if they came across one every day.

Dashing into the other room, he paused just inside, and there it was, atop its chamber, waiting. He checked the diagnostics and grinned at what he saw. Carefully pulling the ZedPM free from its base, he tucked it in the protective steel case he had brought along for such possibilities and rushed back to his teammates.

As soon as they stepped outside and into the bright daylight, John choked back a cry, clamping a hand over his eyes and turning his face into Ronon's shoulder. He managed a few steps before his face took on an alarming greenish tinge. His chest heaved.

"Whoa, hold up a second," Rodney said, raising a hand and stopping in front of them. "John, are you—"

John's knees buckled so suddenly that Ronon nearly lost his grip on him. He gagged a few times and then began vomiting so violently he had trouble catching his breath in between bouts. Ronon wrapped his arm around John's chest, supporting him as he heaved and coughed for what seemed a terrifyingly long time, pink-tinged tears leaking from the corners of his tightly clenched eyes.

Rodney's own stomach churned in sympathy, all the elation he had felt earlier turning to helpless fear of the possible ramifications of what he and John had done. When John finally stopped dry heaving, he sagged against Ronon, moaning softly with each exhaled breath.

"You done?" asked Ronon gently after a moment. John nodded, breathing harshly through his mouth. Ronon directed him to take a sip of water from his canteen, and John obeyed, swallowing with effort. Without another word, Ronon carefully lifted John in his arms, and it was a testament to how miserable he was feeling that he didn't protest the indignity of being carried the short distance back to the jumper.

"Did you know this was gonna happen, McKay?" asked Ronon once Lorne had taken the jumper into the air and through the gate.

Rodney glanced at John who lay stretched out on the opposite bench, his head resting in Teyla's lap, a cool, damp cloth over his eyes and forehead.

"I – I suspected… but I didn't—" he began.

"He didn't do anything," John murmured. _"I_ did it… I… told the chair what to do…"

"What do you mean, John?" Teyla said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

"Was… my call," John whispered. "He didn't do anything," he repeated more insistently.

"John?" Teyla called again, but he seemed to have drifted off.

"I can't believe this," Ronon said, shaking his head and folding his long arms over his chest. "This is just…"

"Nuts?" Rodney finished for him and couldn't help a sardonic laugh. "Yeah, I know."

By the time they reached the jumper bay, John was more alert and sitting up. Leaning heavily on Ronon, he insisted on walking from the jumper to where Elizabeth, along with Keller and a medical team, were waiting for them.

John squinted his horribly red eyes until he found who he was looking for. "Hi, 'Lizbeth."

Elizabeth frowned, confused, her gaze darting from John to Rodney for explanation. When John looked directly at her and grinned, her mouth dropped open.

"John?" she breathed out, her eyes wide, Keller staring at him with an identical stunned expression.

"Yeah, I can see you," John said, nodding and wavering from side to side. Then he waved a trembling hand in Rodney's direction. "McKay, sh-show them the… ZPM before they get pissed."

Rodney rolled his eyes, but snapped open the case, showing off their newfound treasure. "90 percent power, too," he told Elizabeth with an ironic smirk. "We are _so_ back in business."

Elizabeth was at a loss for words, as was everyone else, until John swiped a hand under his nose and it came away smeared with blood. He tried to look at it, then blinked and staggered as his legs gave out. Ronon quickly caught him before he wound up sitting on the bay floor.

Keller spurred into action and coming around to John's other side, she eased him onto a gurney. Rodney winced at John's sharp gasp when she shined her penlight in the direction of his eyes. Apologizing and rubbing his arm, she called out a few orders to the medical staff

Watching as the gurney was whisked away, Rodney felt oddly shell-shocked, as though none of this was really happening, as though he were removed from it all.

"You have a _lot_ of explaining to do," Elizabeth said, looking at each of them and then her sharp gaze fell on Rodney and stayed there. Rodney could only nod. For once, he couldn't seem to get his brain and his mouth in synch. Something must have shown on his face because Elizabeth's expression softened and she stepped closer to him, placing her hand on his upper arm.

"But we can talk about that later," she said and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze before letting go and she walked close beside him as they headed for the infirmary.

It took nearly an hour until Keller finally emerged from behind a curtain.

"I can't begin to explain how this is even possible…" she began, looking a little stunned. "John _has_ regained much of his vision, although, it's too soon to tell to what degree. Whatever that… that technology did to him put a tremendous amount of strain on his brain, sinus cavities, and optic nerves. He has subconjunctival hemorrhages in both eyes, but that, at least, only looks more alarming than it actually is. It'll clear up in a few weeks." Keller paused and looked at Rodney, Teyla and Ronon in turn. "He took a tremendous risk. Any more pressure of that level could have caused serious brain damage or a possible aneurysm."

Rodney's heart skittered in his chest. That was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "Is he okay, though?" he asked.

"Yeah, he should be fine in a few days," she said, nodding, "but he's pretty miserable right now – a nasty headache, extreme light sensitivity, nausea and dizziness. I'll be keeping a close eye on him for the next few days."

"Can we see him?" Ronon asked.

Keller considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Just for a few minutes, though. I've given him something for the pain and nausea, so he's pretty groggy."

The young doctor led them to John's bed, which was set away from the brightness of the infirmary, shrouded in curtains and the lights dimmed. John lay with his eyes closed and was so still that he appeared already asleep. But at the sound of their shuffling footsteps, he stirred and peered at them from under his eyelashes, his brow furrowing as he tried to focus.

"Hi," he said softly.

They each greeted him, and Teyla stepped forward to take hold of his hand. John immediately curled his fingers around hers, as though grateful for the contact.

"How are you feeling, John?"

John swallowed and licked his lips. "Good."

Rodney stepped to the other side of the bed. "Really? Because you look more like shit warmed over, buddy," he said quietly, unable to keep the worry from his voice.

"Doesn't matter…" John said with a faint smile, "…'was worth it."

"Yeah, I guess it was." Rodney matched his friend's smile, and the debilitating remorse that had plagued him since M3R-6P8 began to slip away. John started to drift off, then with a start, pulled his eyes open again. Teyla reassured him by gently stroking his hand, but the next few times sleep nearly stole over him, he jerked himself awake again and again.

Rodney suddenly remembered what John had told him earlier. How he'd been afraid to go to sleep the night before.

"Hey," he said softly, laying his hand on John's shoulder and John managed to meet his gaze. "This will all still be here when you wake up."

John's brows pulled together in confusion and then understanding washed over his pallid face. He held Rodney's gaze for a long moment then nodded, a smile ghosting his lips as he allowed his heavy eyelids to flutter shut. Rodney kept his hand on John's shoulder long after his breaths evened out and sleep pulled him under and back into the dark.

* * *

-- tbc --


	12. Chapter 10 Epilogue

The final chapter, hallelujah! and please excuse any military inaccuracies. All I know is what I get from google and TV. :-) Thank you again for reading, for your fabulous reviews throughout - this has been a wonderful ride and thanks for coming along.

* * *

John waited on a bench at the Reno Tahoe airport, watching the gray-haired, elderly tourists milling around him as they collected their seemingly endless amounts of luggage. John's flight had arrived 20 minutes ahead of schedule, and so he slouched back, propped his feet on his duffle bag and pulled his book from his pocket. It was Stephen King's _IT,_ which, he hated to admit, was a damn scary book, and he hadn't been able to stop reading it since he'd found it in the infirmary back at Atlantis. He opened the book to the page where he'd left off, but he found that he couldn't concentrate. Not when there was so much to see around him. He looked up at every loud voice, at every brightly dressed tourist who wandered by him, the vast array of colors and faces mesmerizing.

John found this re-acquaintance with the visual world both overwhelming and wonderful. Those first few days, however, he'd been far too miserable to fully appreciate how tremendously his world had changed. The pain had been so bad he couldn't so much as turn his head without bile rising in his throat, and without everything spinning in sickening loops. His nose had kept bleeding off and on; one time when he'd been sound asleep, and he'd woken in a near panic at the blood soaking his pillowcase and smearing across his chin and neck. Everything had been blurred and fragmented for a seemingly endless time as the migraines raged with frightening tenacity. Thankfully, Keller kept him dosed up with something that had dulled the pain, and if he didn't move too much, the dizziness had been almost tolerable. He'd spent those days in a semi-conscious haze, blurred faces and streams of conversation drifting over him, uncertain what had been real and what had only been scattered, incoherent dreams.

When his skull finally decided that it wasn't going to explode after all, and the pain had faded, John discovered that his vision was still extremely limited. Anything beyond four feet, or so, deteriorated into indistinct smudges of shapes and colors. He hadn't allowed himself to feel any disappointment though – even severely myopic vision was better than a lifetime in the dark.

Then, nearly a week later, everything became much clearer, growing sharper with each passing day. He could easily make out his teammates' faces as soon as they stepped through the infirmary door. The light sensitivity relented enough that he could tolerate Dr. Keller and Dr. Ito's endless exams and scans. Even though he'd been cautioned not to strain his eyes too much, John had stolen the battered horror novel from a stack of other books piled on a table beside an empty infirmary bed, and had begun reading furtively and with guilty pleasure. He could only manage a few pages at a time without his head beginning to throb and the lines of text blurring, but he couldn't stop himself.

In a life that had given him some pretty amazing rushes, this veritable rebirth was the best rush John had ever experienced. Better than anything he'd likely ever experience again.

Each night, he kept the light above his bed turned on low, and he still found himself reluctant to close his eyes to sleep. Each morning, when he woke, the multi-colored light filtering through the stained-glass windows and washing over his face and arms was the most beautiful thing in the world. A small part of him feared that this was all a dream, a hallucination from which he would be happy to never emerge.

John's teammates seemed to share his caution. Rodney had gone back to the constant, nervous hovering. Teyla still kept taking John's hand whenever they walked down the long corridors, even though he was more than capable of finding his own way around now. But he didn't mind. The contact was reassuring, her small hand and her presence somehow grounding him in the wake of what should have been the impossible. Even Ronon behaved with uncharacteristic gentleness around him, as if John were made of spun glass and easily breakable. It was as though they each shared John's fear that this amazing reprieve was something transitory. Something fragile.

Maybe one day, the novelty would fade. Maybe his sight would once more become something John rarely thought about, but for now, his gratitude was immeasurable.

It took a few more days until he realized that everything appeared subtly different than how he remembered it. As if he were viewing the world through someone else's eyes. The Atlantean sunrises and sunsets were still incredible, but slightly… off. Certain colors seemed oddly muted, but maybe, he reasoned, after being so long in the dark, he'd simply remembered everything more vividly than it truly had been.

He'd put it out of his mind until Rodney figured out for him just what that difference was.

John had just been brought his lunch tray and was scowling with distaste at the watery chicken noodle soup, tuna salad sandwich – he hated tuna – and a clear plastic cup of… _something,_ when Rodney sauntered in and plunked down in the chair beside his bed.

"McKay?" John asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the cup. "What the hell is _that?"_

Rodney looked at him then picked it up and shook it in demonstration. "Uh, jello?"

Skeptical, John glanced at his friend then at the jiggling substance. "Doesn't look like any jello flavor _I've _ever seen."

"What do you mean?" Rodney said, giving him another perplexed look then sniffed the cup. "It's raspberry or strawberry. You used to eat it all the time."

"But it's _green." _John pointed out, wondering if Rodney was messing with him. _"Puke_ green. Umm… _chartreuse."_

"Chartreuse?" Rodney echoed, making his own disgusted face. He shook the jello again. "Sheppard, it's an alarming shade of carcinogenic neon red, and… and…" Rodney's voice trailed off as he stared at John. He quickly scanned the area around John's bed. When he couldn't seem to find what he was looking for, he jumped to his feet and rushed off around the corner.

"McKay!" John called after him.

Rodney came back a few seconds later, carrying a file folder. "What color is this?"

"What?" John shook his head in confusion. "Why?"

"Seriously, John," Rodney said, holding the folder almost in front of John's nose. "Just tell me what color you think it is."

John pushed Rodney's hand back, but looked back and forth between his friend and the folder, unsure how to answer, inexplicably and suddenly nervous. "I dunno… kinda… yellowy?"

Rodney stared at him wide-eyed some more, then threw the folder down at the foot of the bed. "I'll be right back."

"McKay… what the—" John swung his feet off the bed, ready to go after him.

"Just… just wait there," Rodney called over his shoulder and waving a hand for John to stay put.

John scowled in frustration, but stayed where he was. He was curious despite his irritation, and admittedly a little freaked out by Rodney's reaction. He heard Rodney yammering at someone. Then Rodney came back, still talking at breakneck speed, with Dr. Keller in tow, struggling to get a word in edgewise.

"So did you or did you not test him for colorblindness?" Rodney demanded, stopping at the foot of John's bed jerking a thumb at him.

"Colorblindness?" John echoed, incredulous.

Rodney ignored him, keeping his gaze fixed on the young doctor. Keller looked at Rodney then at John wide-eyed.

"Um, no, we hadn't thought that—"

"Well, I think you'd better test him right now," Rodney told her.

Frowning, Keller looked back to John. "Have you been having trouble distinguishing color, John?"

John froze, then shifted on the bed, reluctant at the possibility of even more tests to endure. "I don't know…" he began uncertainly. "I'd noticed that things looked a little different, but—"

"I don't think he can tell red from green," Rodney broke in, crossing his arms. "And why the hell haven't you tested him for something like this along with everything else?"

"But I was _never_ colorblind," John protested before the doctor could answer. "My vision was always perfect."

"Yeah, well, you've never had Ancient technology perform corrective surgery on you before, either," Rodney pointed out.

"Hold on," Keller said, holding up a hand. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. The fact that you can see at _all,_ John, is downright improbable, and we've been waiting for your eyes to fully recover before giving you a full prognosis and further tests."

"Yes, yes," Rodney said, waving a dismissive hand. "But this is something you _can_ test him for right now, isn't it?"

Keller nodded. "It _is_ possible that John may be experiencing some side-effects from the Ancient technology, and it _is_ possible to become colorblind after a serious injury to the eye." She stepped close to John and crouched down to peer into his eyes, as though the answer was written in his pupils. John had to force himself to hold still, uncomfortable under both the doctor's and Rodney's scrutiny. "I'll run a few more tests, but first, I'd like you to eat your lunch." She smiled and patted John reassuringly on the shoulder.

After he had eaten most of his soup and taken a few perfunctory bites of his sandwich, with Rodney hovering impatiently over him and wolfing down the other half of the sandwich, Keller led John to a gurney where Dr. Ito waited. As John had feared, he was subjected to more tests, endless lights shone in his eyes, a full-body scan, of which he couldn't figure out the necessity. Then Dr. Ito showed him a series of slides of color swatches and pictures with monochromatic dots arranged in a circle from which John was supposed to pick out letters and numbers. All of which he'd failed miserably.

"Your visual acuity is nearly back to 20/20 in you right eye, however, the left eye is still significantly weaker, which is not surprising, considering it was more severely damaged," Dr. Ito proclaimed when he finally finished with John. "But this is a tremendous improvement since the last test we performed a week ago. You also have deuteranopia, or red/green colorblindness. This means that you have difficulty with discriminating red and green hues."

"So now what?" John asked, unsure what to make of all this.

"Well, as Dr. Keller has previously mentioned, this is very likely a side effect or repercussion from the Ancient technology. We are still are uncertain as to how the technology restored your eyesight in the first place, so I can only speculate at this point. It is also possible that this may improve somewhat in time," Dr. Ito told him, "but if not, many people have this condition without even realizing it, or without it affecting their day to day lives."

"Yeah, but I bet none of them would ever be allowed to fly a fight jet," John said carefully.

Dr. Ito nodded. "There are certain limitations, yes, but it is not as though you'll be flying American jets here on Atlantis, is it?" he said with a smile, in an attempt at reassurance. John could only nod as he tried to take it all in.

This new development was unexpected to say the least, but John had learned a long time ago to stop being surprised by what life threw at him. He tried not to worry about how this would affect the possibility of getting reinstated to the military and to Atlantis. He'd only just allowed himself to hope for the possibility of getting his old life back. But he'd worry about all that later. For now, he wanted to hold onto his gratitude for a while longer. All that really mattered right now was that he _could_ see. Everything else would sort itself out.

The next morning, John had slowly and reluctantly pulled himself from a dream of the first time he'd ever flown a fighter jet. He supposed that he hadn't been able to put his fears out of his mind, after all.

He'd dragged himself from bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stumbling to the infirmary bathroom. After a long, steaming hot shower, he'd spent an adolescent amount of time peering into the mirror. He still found his own appearance strange, as though his face had weathered a few years instead of five months. There were more flecks of gray at his temples, sideburns and the two-day's worth of stubble on his chin was nearly white. His hair was much too long and he impatiently shoved it back from his forehead. The scars on his cheekbones stood out stark white against his deeply tanned and flushed skin. The long-healed gash bisecting his left eyebrow looked tough, like something he'd acquired during a brawl, and he ran a finger along it. These wounds had healed a long time ago, while he couldn't see them, and it was as though they hadn't existed until now.

The worst were his eyes. Keller had reassured him that the hemorrhages would soon fade and the blood would be reabsorbed into his system, but they still freaked him out. He knew they were supposed to be shot through with red, but instead, with this new vision, they held a strange greenish-yellow cast, making him appear almost feral. He bared his teeth and growled at his reflection.

By the end of the second week, John had submitted to the SGC a full report on the success of his 'consultation mission,' along with a request for reinstatement with the military and the Atlantis expedition. It took a few days for General Landry to respond. Predictably, the General had voiced his skepticism at John's incredible recovery and ordered John to return to base for a full assessment as soon as he was given the all clear to travel.

"Great," John groaned, slumping in the chair in front of Elizabeth's desk as she gave him the news. "You know, he's hated me ever since we stole that jumper right from under his nose."

Elizabeth smiled and raised her eyebrows. "I think he's hated all of us since then. But he _is_ professional enough not to let that sway his judgement."

John folded his arms over his chest, not convinced. "I don't know… he'll probably make me a deskjockey in the SGC for revenge."

Elizabeth sat up straighter in her chair with indignation. "Not if _I_ have anything to say about this. I have every confidence that you'll be fully reinstated, but, if you _are_ going to be relegated to a desk job, then you can do that just as well here, and I'll tell him as much."

"Thanks. I appreciate that. He _is_ scared of you, after all," John told her. He tried for a casual smirk, but he couldn't help a surge of fear at the unknown. After all, not even three weeks ago, his biggest goal in life was getting a guide dog and eventually his own place, but now… the world was wide open to him again, and the only world he wanted was Atlantis.

After another checkup with Keller and Ito, John was given a clean bill of health, and he was scheduled to accompany a team of soldiers returning to Earth in three days.

John spent the last few days with his team; playing sea golf with Ronon, endless virtual games with Rodney, stick fighting with Teyla. They all occupied themselves in the evenings with movie marathons, John calling dibs on who got to choose which ones to watch. After all, as he'd argued, he'd never expected to be able to see them again, so it was only fair. The first night, they watched _Jaws,_ an indisputable classic. Then, much to Rodney's disgust, the original _Planet of the Apes_, which was one of the best sci-fi movies of all time, in John's opinion. Then he wanted to watch Jaws again, much to Ronon's delight. The next night was the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, the extended versions, simply because they were such visual feasts. His teammates fell asleep three-quarters of the way through _The Two Towers_, but John couldn't pull his burning eyes from the screen.

On the last morning, John had woken up early, before the sun had fully risen, and he'd watched the sunrise from his favorite balcony. The sunlight gleamed on Atlantis's spires, casting them in silver light. He smiled at the sight of her. Once the sun was fully up, a hazy ball high in an overcast sky, he wandered the less populated parts of the city by himself, running his fingers along the walls as he walked, not for guidance anymore, but because he wanted to touch her. He couldn't imagine having to leave here again, but he'd done it before, and, he supposed if he had to, he could do it again. Even still, it would always feel as if a part of him was missing.

The last night before he had to go back to face whatever future Landry and the SGC had decided for him, Rodney lay stretched out on John's bed, simultaneously watching him pack and working on his laptop.

"You know, you may as well leave most of that stuff here since you'll be right back anyway," Rodney told him.

"Maybe," John said, pulling his shirts from the drawers. "But in the meantime, I still need something to wear."

"Oh, that's true," Rodney agreed and went back to pecking on his keyboard.

John rolled up his shirts and began placing them one by one in his bag. It was evident that a blind man had packed the clothes – everything, including his socks, were mismatched. He set aside one of the cotton shirts, intending to fold it more neatly, then frowned and picked it up, shaking it out. It was white with a very subtle gray pattern woven into the soft material. Holding it closer to his face, he scowled at it, because shit… was that _paisley?_ Then he had to grin, realizing it had been Dana's way of sneaking a little style into his wardrobe.

"You know, I really like that shirt," Rodney said without looking away from his laptop screen.

Without hesitation, John balled up the shirt and tossed at him. It hit Rodney in the face and fell onto his keyboard.

"Hey!"

"You're welcome," John said and went back to his packing.

Rodney set his laptop beside him on the bed. "What? You're giving it to me?"

"Yep. Consider it a thank you present. Besides, it's a little big on me anyway."

Rodney peered at the inside collar of the shirt, then unbuttoned it and put it on over his T-shirt. "Huh. I would'a figured it for a Calvin Klein, but it's Guess."

John turned around to see Rodney looking down and admiring himself. "Do you have _any_ idea how gay you sound right now, McKay?"

"I do _not."_ Rodney gave him an indignant look, but took the shirt off, folding it neatly beside him. "I just happen to have better fashion sense than you do, which really isn't saying much."

"I rest my case," John said with a smirk.

"So, are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" Rodney asked, sitting up on the edge of the bed. "You know, help you plead your _real_ case?"

"I'll be fine," John told him, shoving the rest of his things in the bag and zipping it shut. "And I don't have a _case_. It's just a technicality. Military protocol and all that bullshit." He heard himself say the words, but he scarcely believed his own reassurances.

"Yeah, true," Rodney said, waving a hand. "Did you know that people with your type of colorblindness can actually be an asset in the field? There have been studies that they can easily spot what's virtually invisible camouflage to normal vision. It's actually like a bullseye to them."

"Really?" John said, feigning interest. Dr. Ito had actually told him the same thing during his last checkup.

"Yep," Rodney said, looking proud of himself. "I even sent General Landry and General O'Neill a memo pointing out that fact, among many other selling points. Some I had to embellish a little, but I can be very persuasive when I want to be."

John turned and gaped at his friend in surprise. "You send them a _memo?"_

"Well, yeah," Rodney shrugged looking embarrassed. "There's still a ton of stuff to explore on that planet that we need you for. And who knows what else you can make that chair do, although you might want to go a little easier on it the next time."

"I'll keep that in mind," John said, smiling a little at his friend's loyalty and determination. He suspected that if the SGC turned him down, Rodney, short of kidnapping him, would figure out one way or another to get him back here.

Once back at the SGC and faced with General Landry and General O'Neill impassively going over his file, John had felt any shred of cautious hope begin to fade away. Then Landry finally looked up and informed John that in light of his role in acquiring a fully powered ZPM, and another potential one within easy reach, he had proven that his Ancient gene was, in fact, indispensable to the Atlantis expedition. However, the paperwork would take some time, and once that was done, John would have to report back for a full physical assessment, as he had been out of action for almost half a year. Landry also couldn't give John any indication as to what position he could expect to fill on Atlantis just yet. Colonel Caldwell had been performing his duties as head of military operations in an exemplary fashion, and Landry, so far, was inclined to leave things as they were.

Looking back and forth at the two Generals, it had taken a moment for John to register what had happened, what Landry had just told him. They were letting him go back, he finally realized with astonishment. One way or another, they were letting him go back, letting him go _home._ The relief and gratitude had been so great that he hadn't been able to hold back a happy grin. Actually, he'd damn near stood up and whooped with joy.

General O'Neill had to hold back a smile of his own, and had suggested that John take a week of 'play time,' and take in the sights of Colorado before he had to rejoin the working world.

However, John had other plans in mind. First, he booked a flight to Reno that left the next morning. Then he called his dad from the base, and stammered out his good news. He had to make up some bullshit story about highly classified experimental surgery that he'd agreed to take part in. And no, he hadn't said anything because he hadn't wanted to get both his and William's hopes up, but yeah, amazingly, it had worked. William had been near speechless with shock and surprise, and John felt a small measure of guilt over that – but he reasoned that it was better than showing up in Reno and giving his poor old man a heart attack at the sight of him.

Before he hung up the phone, William insisted on getting John's flight information and picking him up at the airport, and John found that he was looking forward to seeing his dad.

But before that, he had an entire evening to himself. Escaping the gloomy confines of the base, he borrowed a car and went downtown. His first stop was a bookstore, where he spent way too much money on the types of books and magazines he thought that William might like, and he couldn't resist buying a few for himself, too.

Afterward, he'd searched until he finally found a board shop in a rundown section of the city. He couldn't believe his luck when saw the board in the window – it was just like his own. Exactly what he'd been looking for. He'd bought it, along with preteen-sized padding that looked cool enough that a twelve-year-old wouldn't balk at wearing it, and arranged to have the board and gear sent by courier to Reno.

As he'd left the shop, John had cursed himself for being such a damned coward. He should have delivered the gear to Dana's house himself, he knew that. But, if he were to be honest with himself, he simply _was_ too afraid to face her. It had been difficult enough lying to his dad on the phone, and for some reason, John didn't think he could pull it off in person with Dana. Instead, he wrote her a cheque to cover the six months, which they still had scheduled to work together, plus enough for a couple of extra months. He stuck the cheque in an envelope, along with a postcard with a hastily scrawled note on the back and had mailed it. He still wasn't certain why he had done that to her, to a friend who had helped him through some of his worst times.

Maybe, he'd thought, maybe he'd write her a letter once he was in Reno. Maybe he'd at least _try_ and tell her how he felt about what she had done for him, and how he felt about her. Maybe he'd even phone her. Maybe...

Shifting on the uncomfortable airport bench, these thoughts stole John's attention once again from his book. He glanced up in time to see someone heading straight for him. A gray-haired, older man, neatly dressed in light gray trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt. It took until the man was nearly in front of him for John to realize that it was his dad. He tossed his book down beside him and stood up, suddenly nervous.

William walked right up to him, smiling. "Johnny."

"Hey, dad," John said, returning the smile, but he was almost shocked at his father's appearance. The entire time he'd been living with William, John had naively envisioned his dad as the same man he had last seen fifteen years ago. Imposing, impossibly strong, with only a hint of gray in his hair, but now… now his dad looked old. His sharp features were softened and sagging, his hair thinner and entirely gray, his upper back slightly hunched. For the first time, his dad looked frail, John realized with a sharp twinge of sadness and regret at how much time they'd lost.

William looked intently at John's eyes and shook his head in disbelief. He reached around John's shoulders and pulled him in a fierce hug. His arms trembling, his breath rasping, he held his son like he never wanted to let go.

For a moment, John didn't know how to react, then he returned his father's embrace, almost carefully putting his arms around William's smaller frame. John took a deep, shaky breath and smelled Old Spice and tobacco. It was a scent that he'd always associated with his father, but it had never seemed comforting until now.

William finally released him, but kept one hand on the back of John's neck, his eyes damp and rimmed with red.

John's throat tightened, and he had to blink back tears of his own. "Dad… it's okay. I'm okay now."

"How did this happen, Johnny?" William asked, his voice raspy. He swiped at his eyes. "How is this possible?"

"Okay…" John paused and swallowed the lump closing up his throat. "You know that I'd been stationed on a highly classified outpost before my accident, right?" He waited until William nodded. "Well, this is _so_ classified, I'd have to shoot you if I told you. And that would be a shame since we kinda like each other now…"

William stared at him in confusion. John raised his eyebrows and tipped his head apologetically. Then William burst out laughing and swatted at the top of John's head.

"Well, it's a damn miracle, is all I can say," William declared.

"Yeah, I guess it is," John agreed with a grin.

"So you ready to get out of here?"

John nodded and stooped to pick up his bag. He followed William outside into the cool October morning air.

"You up for some breakfast?" John said, shifting his bag higher up on his shoulder. "My treat."

William agreed, suggesting a pancake house not too far up the highway.

"So hey, what do you have planned for the next few days?" John asked.

"I don't know." William shrugged. "Figured you'd just want to relax for a while."

"Well, yeah," John agreed. "I kinda thought it would be fun to drive up to the Grand Canyon, too. Haven't been there in _years."_

William shot him a skeptical look. "You're joking, right? You thought it was 'boring' the one time I took you all up there. 'Nothing but a bunch of old rocks,' I seem to remember you saying."

"I was _ten,_ dad. Everything was boring then."

"Well, let's think on it," William said, "after breakfast."

"Sure. It _is_ hard to think on an empty stomach," John said, quoting McKay, as they navigated their way through the cars in the lot.

John thought it strange how things worked out sometimes. Coming from such ordinary beginnings, he'd never expected his life to turn out so extraordinary; Atlantis, all the things he'd seen and done, what he'd been through over the past five months.

What was even stranger was the fact that he had a full week to do whatever he wanted, and he'd chosen to spend it with his dad. No, it wasn't strange, he decided after a moment. It was good; it felt _right,_ even. He supposed that maybe sometimes things worked out the way they were meant to. Sometimes.

What would come when the week was up, and he had to report back for his assessment, he didn't know. He wasn't going to think about it now. All that mattered right now, at this moment, was that the sun was shining, he and his dad were content in each other's company, and he had a week of perfect freedom ahead of him.

Pausing to gaze around him, the flat desert horizon in the distance was washed in varying shades of that odd grayish-green, something John suspected he'd never get used to, but the sky… He smiled as he looked up at it. The sky was still blue. Exactly the way he'd remembered it.

* * *

_finis _


End file.
